UNDER a spreading chestnut tree | |
The village smithy stands; | |
The smith, a mighty man is he, | |
With large and sinewy hands; | |
And the muscles of his brawny arms | 5 |
Are strong as iron bands. | |
His hair is crisp, and black, and long, | |
His face is like the tan; | |
His brow is wet with honest sweat, | |
He earns whate'er he can, | 10 |
And looks the whole world in the face, | |
For he owes not any man. | |
Week in, week out, from morn till night, | |
You can hear his bellows blow; | |
You can hear him swing his heavy sledge | 15 |
With measured beat and slow, | |
Like a sexton ringing the village bell, | |
When the evening sun is low. | |
And children coming home from school | |
Look in at the open door; | 20 |
They love to see the flaming forge, | |
And hear the bellows roar, | |
And watch the burning sparks that fly | |
Like chaff from a threshing-floor. | |
He goes on Sunday to the church, | 25 |
And sits among his boys; | |
He hears the parson pray and preach, | |
He hears his daughter's voice, | |
Singing in the village choir, | |
And it makes his heart rejoice. | 30 |
It sounds to him like her mother's voice, | |
Singing in Paradise! | |
He needs must think of her once more, | |
How in the grave she lies; | |
And with his hard, rough hand he wipes | 35 |
A tear out of his eyes. | |
Toiling,—rejoicing,—sorrowing, | |
Onward through life he goes; | |
Each morning sees some task begin, | |
Each evening sees it close; | 40 |
Something attempted, something done, | |
Has earned a night's repose. | |
Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend, | |
For the lesson thou hast taught! | |
Thus at the flaming forge of life | 45 |
Our fortunes must be wrought; | |
Thus on its sounding anvil shaped | |
Each burning deed and thought! |
Sunday, August 10, 2014
The Village Blacksmith -- Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (1807-1882)
Labels:
poetry
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