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.