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Henry Wadsworth Longfellow - The Village Blacksmith
Work rating: Medium

Under a spreading chestnut tree
  The village smithy stands;
 The Smith, a mighty man is he,
  With large and sinewy hands;
 And the muscles of his brawny arms
  Are strong as iron bands.

 His hair is crisp, and black, and long,
  His face is like the tan;
 His brow is wet with honest sweat,
 He earns whate`er he can
 And looks the whole world in the face
  For he owes not any man.

 Week in, week out, from morn till night,
  You can hear his bellows blow;
 You can hear him swing his heavy sledge,
  With measured beat and slow,
Like a sexton ringing the village bell,
  When the evening sun is low.

And children coming home from school
  Look in at the open door;
They love to see the flaming furge,
  And hear the bellows roar,
And catch the burning sparks that fly
 Like chaff from a threshing floor.

He goes on Sunday to the church
 and sits among his boys;
He hears the parson pray and preach.
 He hears his daughter`s voice
singing in the village choir,
 And it makes his heart rejoice.

It sounds to him like her mother`s voice,
 Singing in Paradise!
He needs must think of her once more,
  How in the grave she lies;
And with his hard, rough hand he wipes
  A tear out of his eyes.

Toiling,--rejoicing,--sorrowing,
  Onward through life he goes;
Each morning sees some task begin,
  Each evening sees it close;
Something attempted, something done,
 Has earned a night`s repose.

Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend
  For the lesson thou hast taught!
Thus at the flaming forge of life
  Our fortunes must be wrought;
Thus on its sounding anvil shaped
  Each burning deed and thought!
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