To Sydney

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