PETRA

by John William Burgon

  It seems no work of Man's creative hand,
  by labor wrought as wavering fancy planned;
  But from the rock as 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  that first beheld them were not yet withdrawn;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.

[It's called Petra, by Dean John William Burgon, a biblical scholar ("Dean"
is a title), and won the Newdigate poetry prize in 1845, all according to
the internet.]