Burned from the ore’s rejected dross, <br />The iron whitens in the heat. <br />With plangent strokes of pain and loss <br />The hammers on the iron beat. <br />Searched by the fire, through death and dole <br />We feel the iron in our soul. <br /> <br />O dreadful Forge! if torn and bruised <br />The heart, more urgent comes our cry <br />Not to be spared but to be used, <br />Brain, sinew, and spirit, before we die. <br />Beat out the iron, edge it keen, <br />And shape us to the end we mean.<br /><br />Robert Laurence Binyon<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-anvil-4/
