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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=344063" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Song of the Wheat</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">We have sung the song of the droving days, <br> Of the march of the travelling sheep; <br>By silent stages and lonely ways <br> Thin, white battalions creep. <br>But the man who now by the land would thrive <br> Must his spurs to a plough-share beat. <br>Is there ever a man in the world alive <br> To sing the song of the Wheat! <br>It's west by south of the Great Divide <br> The grim grey plains run out, <br>Where the old flock-masters lived and died <br> In a ceaseless fight with drought. <br>Weary with waiting and hope deferred <br> They were ready to own defeat, <br>Till at last they heard the master-word— <br> And the master-word was Wheat. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Yarran and Myall and Box and Pine— <br> ’Twas axe and fire for all; <br>They scarce could tarry to blaze the line <br> Or wait for the trees to fall, <br>Ere the team was yoked, and the gates flung wide, <br> And the dust of the horses’ feet <br>Rose up like a pillar of smoke to guide <br> The wonderful march of Wheat. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Furrow by furrow, and fold by fold, <br> The soil is turned on the plain; <br>Better than silver and better than gold <br> Is the surface-mine of the grain; <br>Better than cattle and better than sheep <br> In the fight with drought and heat; <br>For a streak of stubbornness, wide and deep, <br> Lies hid in a grain of Wheat. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">When the stock is swept by the hand of fate, <br> Deep down in his bed of clay <br>The brave brown Wheat will lie and wait <br> For the resurrection day: <br>Lie hid while the whole world thinks him dead; <br> But the Spring-rain, soft and sweet, <br>Will over the steaming paddocks spread <br> The first green flush of the Wheat. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Green and amber and gold it grows <br> When the sun sinks late in the West; <br>And the breeze sweeps over the rippling rows <br> Where the quail and the skylark nest. <br>Mountain or river or shining star, <br> There’s never a sight can beat— <br>Away to the sky-line stretching far— <br> A sea of the ripening Wheat. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">When the burning harvest sun sinks low, <br> And the shadows stretch on the plain, <br>The roaring strippers come and go <br> Like ships on a sea of grain; <br>Till the lurching, groaning waggons bear <br> Their tale of the load complete. <br>Of the world’s great work he has done his share <br> Who has gathered a crop of wheat. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Princes and Potentates and Czars, <br> They travel in regal state, <br>But old King Wheat has a thousand cars <br> For his trip to the water-gate; <br>And his thousand steamships breast the tide <br> And plough thro’ the wind and sleet <br>To the lands where the teeming millions bide <br> That say: “Thank God for Wheat!”</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Andrew+Barton+Paterson">Andrew Barton Paterson</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=344063" data-title="Song of the Wheat de Andrew Barton Paterson" data-description="We have sung the song of the droving days, 
 Of the march of the travelling sheep; 
By silent stages and lonely ways 
 Thin, white battalions creep. 
But the man who now by the land would thrive 
 Must his spurs to a plough-share beat. 
Is there e..."></div>
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