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by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow


Under a spreading chestnut-tree

The village smithy stands;

The smitha mighty man is he

With large and sinewy hands;

And the muscles of his brawny arms

Are strong as iron bands. -

His hair is crispand blackand 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 inweek outfrom 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. -

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 hardrough 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 attemptedsomething done

Has earned a night's repose. -

Thanksthanks to theemy worthy friend

For the lesson thou has taught!

Thus at the flaming forge of life

Our fortunes must be wrought;

Thus on its sounding anvil shaped

Each burning deed and thought. - -