Sydney

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.