Sydney in July.
The clouds have wept their great hearts out,
The westerly is dead,
Each night the world’s wide hearthstone glows
With embers, grey and red;
The sun, abashed, rides proud and high
Nor tries his wooing ways to try
On Sydney in July.
A cold, salt air sweeps through the Heads
Along the waterways,
And shores and ships and quays are wrapped
In soft grey blotting haze.
A breath of violets mingles with the fumes
Of she-oak logs that glow in curtained rooms.
Dreams softly fly
On velvet wings in Sydney in July.
Agnes L. Storrie. Poems, J. W. Kettlewell, Sydney, 1909, page 109