What are the words of the poem Petra by Dean Burgen?

"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 plane;

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That first beheld them were not yet withdrawn;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,

Your Contributions which deemed old two thousand years ago,

Match me such a marvel save in Eastern clime,

A rose-red city half as old as time."