By Henry Longsworth Longfellow
Under a spreading chestnut-tree
The village smithy stands;
The smith, a mighty man is he,
With large and sinewy hands;
[5] 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,
[10] He earns whate’er he can,
And looks the whole world in the face,
Week in, week out, from morn till night,
You can hear his bellows blow;
[15] 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
[20] Look in at the open door;
They love to see the flaming forge,
And hear the bellows roar,
And catch the burning sparks that fly
Like chaff from a threshing-floor.
[25] He goes on Sunday to the church,
He hears the parson pray and preach,
He hears his daughter’s voice,
Singing in the village choir,
[30] And makes his heart rejoice.
It sounds to him like her mother’s voice,
He needs must think of her once more,
How in the grave she lies;
[35] And with his hard, rough hand he wipes
Toiling, -rejoicing, -sorrowing,
Onward through life he goes;
Each morning sees some task begun,
40Each evening sees its close!
Something attempted, something done,
Has earned a night’s repose.
Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend,
For the lesson thou hast taught!
[45] Thus at the flaming forge of life
Our fortunes must be wrought;
Thus on its sounding anvil shaped
Each burning deed and thought.