THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH by Longfellow

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Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

The most popular of American poets.
Born at Portland, Maine, 1807;
died at Cambridge, Massachusetts,
1882.

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 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;
He hears the parson pray and preach;
He hears his daughter’s voice
Singing in the village choir,
And it makes his heart rejoice.

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

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