Classic Poem

Is there room in this land of ours enough,
Are there corn and wine and oil,
To succour heroes who limp in buff,
With never the strength for toil?
Then bury your hands in her coffers keep,
And clasp what your fingers hold,
And carry them back o'er the trackless deep
At cost of Australia's gold.

Our women want not in eagerness
To clasp to their hearts the man
Who cripples home in a cripple's stress
O'er borne by a sightless ban;
We'll hearten the heroes who limp in buff,
Nor talk we of task or toil,
Enough for a life was their task — enough
And more than enough the moil.

So bring them back from the front again,
The lame and the halt and blind,
And little they'll reck of their loss or pain
At home with their own loved kind,
We have hearts to feel, we have hands to keep,
We have corn and wine and oil,
And room enough for our braves to sleep
At last on their own loved soil.