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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 known.
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.

Arthur H. Adams.