From The Village Blacksmith ~

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 measure 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 with his boys;
He hears the parson pray and preach,
   He hears his daughter's voice
Singing in the village choir,
   And 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 hard, rough hand he wipes
   A tear out of his eyes.

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

Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend
   For the lesson though hast taught!
Thus at the flaming forge of Life
   Our fortunes must be wrought;
Thus on its sounding anvil shaped
   Each burning deed and thought!

~ Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (Feb. 27, 1807 - March 24, 1882) 
American poet, educator.