The Village Blacksmith

7His hair is crisp, and black, and long;

8His face is like the tan;

9His brow is wet with honest sweat,

10He earns whate'er he can,

11And looks the whole world in the face,

12For he owes not any man.

13Week in, week out, from morn till night,

14You can hear his bellows blow;

15You can hear him swing his heavy sledge,

16With measured beat and slow,

17Like a sexton ringing the village bell,

18When the evening sun is low.

19And children coming home from school

20Look in at the open door;

21They love to see the flaming forge,

22And hear the bellows roar,

23And catch the burning sparks that fly

24Like chaff from a threshing-floor.

25He goes on Sunday to the church,

26And sits among his boys;

27He hears the parson pray and preach,

28He hears his daughter's voice

29Singing in the village choir,

30And it makes his heart rejoice.

31It sounds to him like her mother's voice

32Singing in Paradise!

33He needs must think of her once more,

34How in the grave she lies;

35And with his hard, rough hand he wipes

36A tear out of his eyes.

37Toiling,—rejoicing,—sorrowing,

38Onward through life he goes;

39Each morning sees some task begin,

40Each evening sees it close;

41Something attempted, something done,

42Has earned a night's repose.

43Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend,

44For the lesson thou hast taught!

45Thus at the flaming forge of life

46Our fortunes must be wrought;

47Thus on its sounding anvil shaped

48Each burning deed and thought.

49Henry W. Longfellow.

50Authority control