To Sydney

CITY, I never told you yet—  
 O little City, let me tell—  
A secret woven of your wiles,  
 Dear City with the angel face,  
 And you will hear with frowning grace,  
Or will you break in summer smiles?  
 
This is the secret, little town,  
 Lying so lightly towards the sea;  
City, my secret has no art,  
 Dear City with the golden door;  
 But oh, the whispers I would pour  
Into your ears—into your heart!  
 
You are my lover, little place,  
 Lying so sweetly all alone.  
And yet I cannot, cannot tell  
 My secret, for the voice will break  
 That tries to tell of all the ache  
Of this poor heart beneath your spell.  
 
Dreaming, I tell you all my tale;  
 Tell how the tides that wash your feet  
Sink through my heart and cut its cords.  
 Dreaming, I hold my arms, and drag  
 All, all into my heart—the flag  
On the low hill turned harbourwards,  
 
And all the curving little bays,  
 The hot, dust-ridden, narrow streets,  
The languid turquoise of the sky,  
 The gardens flowing to the wave,  
 I drag them in. O City, save  
The grave for me where I must lie.  
 
Yet humbly I would try to build  
 Stone upon stone for this town’s sake;  
Humbly would try for you to aid  
 Those whose wise love for you will rear  
 White monuments far off and near,  
White, but unsoiled, undesecrate.