into a feast of lanterns. In the daytime no one could describe it and convey any impression of it; for it changes so, and has so many aspects:
The haze on the hills northward and westward.
The large and small steamers in motion. . . .
The white wake left by the passage, the quick tremulous whirl of the wheels.
The flags of all nations, the falling of them at sunset.
The scallop-edged waves in the twilight.
The stretch afar growing dimmer and dimmer, the grey walls of the houses by the quays.
On the neighbouring shore the fires from the foundry chimneys burning high in the night.
Or again:
I too, many and many a time crossed the harbour of old.
Watched the seagulls. . . .
Saw the slow-wheeling circles and the gradual edging in towards the south.
Saw the reflection of the summer sky in the water.
Had my eyes dazzled by the shimmering track of beams.
Looked towards the lower bay to notice the vessels arriving.
Saw their approach, saw aboard those that were near me.
Saw the white sails of schooners and sloops, saw the ships at anchor. . . .
That was written by a poet of another harbour, but it catches better than any description I can give, the life, the humanity of Sydney Harbour.
It will be the same, perhaps not less beautiful, fifty years hence. But people who have lived there long, look at the encroaching villas of
