151 . 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.