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The Village Blacksmith | Classic Narrative Poems · Ririro.com - Poetry

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  Speaker 1: Under a spreading chestnut tree the village of Smithy stands
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  Speaker 1: the smith. A mighty man is he, with large and
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  Speaker 1: sinewy hands, and the muscles of his brawny arms are
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  Speaker 1: strong as iron bands. His hair is crisp and black
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  Speaker 1: and long. His face is like the tan. His brow
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  Speaker 1: is wet with honest sweat. He earns whate'er he can,
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  Speaker 1: and looks the whole world in the face, for he
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  Speaker 1: owes not any man, week in week out, from morn
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  Speaker 1: till night. You can hear his bellows blow. You can
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  Speaker 1: hear him swing his heavy sledge with measured feet and
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  Speaker 1: slow like a sexton, ringing the village bell. When the
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  Speaker 1: evening sun is low, and children coming home from school
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  Speaker 1: look in at the open door. They love to see
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  Speaker 1: the flaming forge, and hear the bellows roar, and watch
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  Speaker 1: the burning sparks that fly like chaff from a threshing floor.
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  Speaker 1: He goes on Sunday to the church and sits among
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  Speaker 1: his boys. He hears the parson pray and preach. He
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  Speaker 1: hears his daughter's voice singing in the village choir, and
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  Speaker 1: it makes his heart rejoice. It sounds to him like
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  Speaker 1: her mother's voice. Singing in paradise. He needs, must think
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  Speaker 1: of her once more, how in the grave she lies,
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  Speaker 1: And with his hard rough hand he wipes a tear
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  Speaker 1: out of his eyes. Toiling, rejoicing, sorrowing onward through life
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  Speaker 1: he goes. Each morning, sees some task begin, each evening
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  Speaker 1: sees it close. Something attempted, something done, has earned a
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  Speaker 1: night's repose. Thanks thanks to THEE, my worthy friend, for
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  Speaker 1: the lesson thou hast taught thus at the flaming forge
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  Speaker 1: of life. Our fortunes must be wrought thus on its
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  Speaker 1: sounding anvil shaped each burning deed and thought