In her grey majesty of ancient stone <br />She queens it proudly, though the sun's caress <br />Her piteous cheeks, ravished of bloom, confess, <br />And her dark eyes his bridegroom glance have know. <br />Robed in her flowing parks, serene, alone, <br />She fronts the east; and with the tropic stress <br />Her smooth brow ripples into weariness; <br />Yet hers the sea for footstool, and for throne <br />A continent predestined. Round her trails <br />The turbid squalor of her streets, and dim <br />Into the dark heat-haze her domes flow up; <br />Her long lean fingers, with their grey-old nails, <br />Giving her thirsty lips to the cool brim <br />Of the bronze beauty of her harbour's cup.<br /><br />Arthur Henry Adams<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/sydney/
