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