"Sydney"

Poem by Arthur Henry Adams

In her grey majesty of ancient stone 

She queens it proudly, though the sun's caress 

Her piteous cheeks, ravished of bloom, confess, 

And her dark eyes his bridegroom glance have know. 

Robed in her flowing parks, serene, alone, 

She fronts the east; and with the tropic stress 

Her smooth brow ripples into weariness; 

Yet hers the sea for footstool, and for throne 

A continent predestined. Round her trails 

The turbid squalor of her streets, and dim 

Into the dark heat-haze her domes flow up; 

Her long lean fingers, with their grey-old nails, 

Giving her thirsty lips to the cool brim 

Of the bronze beauty of her harbour's cup.