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.
