The Village Blacksmith
BY Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

     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.

           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 begin,
                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 thou hast taught!
           Thus as the flaming forge of life
                Our fortunes must be wrought;
           Thus on its sounding anvil shaped
                Each burning deed and thought.

[from "Song of Myself"]
BY Walt Whitman

          Blacksmiths with grimed and hairy chests environ the anvil,
          Each has his main-sledge . . . . they are all out . . . . there is a great heat in the fire.

          From the cinder-strewed threshold I follow their movements,
          The lithe sheer of their waists plays even with their massive arms,
          Overhand the hammers roll -- overhand so slow -- overhand so sure,
          They do not hasten, each man hits in his place.

BY Emily Dickinson
          Dare you see a Soul at the White Heat?
          Then crouch within the door -
          Red - is the Fire's common tint -
          But when the vivid Ore
          Has vanquished Flame's conditions,
          It quivers from the Forge
          Without a color, but the light
          Of unanointed Blaze.
          Least Village has its Blacksmith
          Whose Anvil's even ring
          Stands symbol for the finer Forge
          The soundless tugs - within -
          Refining these impatient Ores
          With Hammer, and with Blaze
          Until the Designated Light
          Repudiate the Forge -