Henry Lawson

above lavender bay

Tis glorious morning everywhere save where the alleys lie — I see the fleecy steam jets bid “Good morning” to the sky. The gullies of the waratah are near, with fall and pool, and by the shadowed western rocks the bays are fresh and cool. To “points” that hint of Italy — of Italy and Spain — I see the busy ferry boats come nosing round again. To the toy station down below I see the toy trains run — (I wonder when those ferry boats will get their business done?) Above the Bay called Lavender this bard is domiciled, where up through rich, dark greenery the red-tiled roofs are piled — (At least some are — I hope that soon they all shall be red-tiled) — a moonlight night in middle-age that makes one feel a child. Close over, to the nearer left that feels the ocean breeze — a full moon in a dim blue sky a church spire and dark trees. And, further right, the harsher heights of Mosman, Double Bay, and Rose Bay, with their scattered lights, have softened with the day. And fair across to where we know the shelving sea cliffs are — the lighthouse, with a still faint glow, beneath a twinkling star. Across the harbour from the right, and fairly in a line, the Clock-tower on the City Hall, a ship-mast and a pine. The pale and bright, yet dusky blue, and crossed by fleecy bars, flings out the brilliant city lights, the moonlight and the stars — And like a transformation scene, on sheet glass down below, the fairy-lighted ferry boats are gliding to and fro.

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