It seems no work of Man's creative hand
by labor wrought as wavering fancy planned
But from the rock as if by magic grown
eternal, silent, beautiful, alone
Not virgin-white like that old Doric shrine
where erst Athena held her rites divine
Not saintly-grey, like many a minster fane
that crowns the hill and consecrates the plain
But rose-red as if the blush of dawn
that first beheld them were not yet withdrawn
The hues of youth upon a brow of woe
which Man deemed old two thousand years ago
match me such marvel save in Eastern clime
a rose-red city half as old as time
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