SYDNEY"God! What a place to write in!"—The Triad.
Short streets, funny streets, twisting to the sea,Broadening out to tramlines and the muddle of the Quay,Lanes of lurking twilights with a smell of mystery.Old boats, new boats, rocking at the rimOf a magic ocean. Orange lamps grown dim,Hunter-street is full of fog . . . choking to the brim!
One step down . . . a musty shop . . . hats, and boots, and bags;Neath the sign of "Wardrobes Bought," where the roadway sags,Vice has cast her satin gown, Virtue left her rags!On the stone-cracked window, focused like a star,Darts a shaft of sunshine to a yellow jarSpirited by genii out of Africa!
In the spidered corner, pale as dying leaves,Looms the portly outline. There some prisoner grievesDreaming Morgiana and the Forty Thieves!Posters on the pavement, women at the kerbs,From a hidden garden sudden whiff of herbsWhere a roaring southerly sleeping buds disturbs!
