65 lines
1.6 KiB
Plaintext
65 lines
1.6 KiB
Plaintext
The Village Blacksmith
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Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
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Under a spreading chestnut-tree
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The village smithy stands;
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The smith, a mighty man is he,
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With large and sinewy hands;
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And the muscles of his brawny arms
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Are strong as iron bands.
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His hair is crisp, and black, and long,
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His face is like the tan;
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His brow is wet with honest sweat,
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He earns whate'er he can,
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And looks the whole world in the face,
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For he owes not any man.
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Week in, week out, from morn till night,
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You can hear his bellows blow;
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You can hear him swing his heavy sledge,
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With measured beat and slow,
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Like a sexton ringing the village bell,
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When the evening sun is low.
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And children coming home from school
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Look in at the open door;
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They love to see the flaming forge,
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And hear the bellows roar,
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And catch the burning sparks that fly
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Like chaff from a threshing-floor.
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He goes on Sunday to the church,
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And sits among his boys;
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He hears the parson pray and preach,
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He hears his daughter's voice,
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Singing in the village choir,
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And it makes his heart rejoice.
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It sounds to him like her mother's voice,
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Singing in Paradise!
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He needs must think of her once more,
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How in the grave she lies;
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And with his hard, rough hand he wipes
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A tear out of his eyes.
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Toiling,---rejoicing,---sorrowing,
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Onward through life he goes;
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Each morning sees some task begin,
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Each evening sees it close;
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Something attempted, something done,
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Has earned a night's repose.
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Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend,
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For the lesson thou hast taught!
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Thus at the flaming forge of life
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Our fortunes must be wrought;
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Thus on its sounding anvil shaped
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Each burning deed and thought.
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