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that first beheld them were not yet withdrawn;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.

 

… il bello è che quando Burgon ha scritto questa poesia a Petra non c’era ancora stato! Con questo poema nel 1845 vinse Burgon vinse il Newdigate Prize per la poesia dell’Università di Oxford e le parole dell’ultimo verso finirono con legare per sempre a Petra l’appellativo di città Rosa.

A Petra poi Burgon ci andrà veramente, ma solo 16 anni dopo la pubblicazione di questo poema.