Under a spreading chestnut tree <br />The village smithy stands; <br />The smith, a might man is he, <br />With large and sinewy hands; <br />And the muscles of his brawney 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 what'er he can, <br />And looks the whole word in the face, <br />For he owes not any man. <br /> <br />Week in, week out, from morn till night, <br />You can hear the bellows blow; <br />You can hear him swing his might sledge, <br />With measure 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 the open door; <br />They love to see the flaming forge, <br />And hear the bellows roar. <br />And catch the flaming 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 />He hears the parson pray and preach, <br />He hears his daughter's voice, <br />Singing in the choir, <br />And it makes his heart rejoice. <br /> <br />It sounds to him like his 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 hands he wipes <br />A tear out of his eyes. <br /> <br />Toiing, -- rejoicing, -- sorrowing, <br />Onward in life he goes; <br />Each morning sees some task begin, <br />Each evening sees it close; <br />Something attempted, something done, <br />Has earned his night's repose. <br /> <br />Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend, <br />For the lesson thou has 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/the-village-blacksmith/
