He lies on his back, the idling smith, <br />A lazy, dreaming fellow is he; <br />The sky is blue, or the sky is gray, <br />He lies on his back the livelong day, <br />Not a tool in sight, say what they may, <br />A curious sort of smith is he. <br /> <br />The powers of the air are in league with him; <br />The country around believes it well; <br />The wondering folk draw spying near; <br />Never sight nor sound do they see or hear; <br />No wonder they feel a little fear; <br />When is it his work is done so well? <br /> <br />Never sight nor sound to see or hear; <br />The powers of the air are in league with him; <br />High over his head his metals swing, <br />Fine gold and silver to shame the king; <br />We might distinguish their glittering, <br />If once we could get in league with him. <br /> <br />High over his head his metals swing; <br />He hammers them idly year by year, <br />Hammers and chuckles a low refrain: <br />"A bench and a book are a ball and a chain, <br />The adze is a better tool than the plane; <br />What's the odds between now and next year?" <br /> <br />Hammers and chuckles his low refrain, <br />A lazy, dreaming fellow is he: <br />When sudden, some day, his bells peal out, <br />And men, at the sound, for gladness shout; <br />He laughs and asks what it's all about; <br />Oh, a curious sort of smith is he.<br /><br />Helen Hunt Jackson<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-poet-s-forge/
