The poem
There is waving of grass in the breeze And a song in the air, And a murmur of myriad bees That toil everywhere. There is scent in the blossom and bough, And the breath of the Spring Is as soft as a kiss on a brow -- And Spring-time I sing.
There is drought on the land, and the stock Tumble down in their tracks Or follow -- a tottering flock -- The scrub-cutter's axe. While ever a creature survives The axes shall swing; We are fighting with fate for their lives -- And the combat I sing.