The Village Blacksmith
by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Under a spreading chestnut tree
The village smithy stands;
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
His brow is wet with honest sweat,
He earns whate'er he can,
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
You can hear him swing his heavy sledge,
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;
love to see the flaming forge,
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;
hears the parson pray and preach,
He hears his daughter's voice,
in the village choir,
And it makes his heart rejoice.
It sounds to him like her mother's voice,
Singing in Paradise!
needs must think of her once more,
How in the grave she lies;
his hard, rough hand he wipes
A tear out of his eyes.
Onward through life he
Each morning sees some task begin,
Each evening sees it close;
Something attempted, something done,
earned a night's repose.
Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend,
For the lesson thou
Thus at the flaming forge of life
Our fortunes must be
Thus on its sounding anvil shaped
Each burning deed and