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.
Arthur Henry Adams
Другие работы автора
Lament
CE, your little child is dead: Peace, I cannot weep with you; I have no more tears to shed;
The Stars
HE terrible tranquillity of space My soul shrinks back in sudden doubt I The myriad eyes that through the ether peer,
The Australian
CE more this Autumn-earth is ripe, Parturient of another type While with the Past old nations merge His foot is on the Future’s verge They watch him, as they huddle, pent, Striding a spacious continent, Above the level desert’s marge Loo...
In Hyde Park
The white mist walks between the In silver gown; Her mystic floating The branches drown;