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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=357733" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Old Town Types No.11</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">As first I remember him: A red man, and tall,<br>Great Toll, the blacksmith, filled my childish eye.<br>At its first crisp, clamorous stroke,<br>Every morning I awoke<br>To the ringing of his anvil as the years lagged by.<br>And, when the season came for them, he made us iron hoops<br> And iron hooks to trundle them: for children were his joy,<br>And then down the village street we raced with joyous whoops;<br> For little things contented us when I was a boy.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">A glad giant toiling in his little tin shop <br>The great swelling arms he had, the great rugged head <br>There he loomed beside the forge<br>Calling to his striker, george,<br>'Smite it, laddie! Smite it while the iron glows red!'<br>So simply joyous in his strength, he made of life a song;<br>A straight man, a proper man, on no swift fortune bent,<br>He went about his heavy tasks humming the whole day long,<br> Accepting, simply as it came, his great gift of content.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">The boasting tales his townsmen told he feigned were half untrue,<br> And blushed to find his feats of strength had won him wide renown;<br>Of how, long since, he flung his sledge<br>Fron Grogan's to the river's edge,<br>And bore two bags of wheat a-back the whole length of the town;<br>Of how he raised a mighty beam to save a child from fire<br> When Simpson's store was gutted in the blaze of 'eighty-six.<br>'They talk,' said he; 'and tales will grow. But, Lord, 'tain't my desire<br>For to figure as a hero thro' a brace of silly tricks.'</div><div style="margin:10px 0">As last I remember him: A grey man and spare,<br>Sitting in his sons' garage, now from toil withdrawn,<br>Calling with a mighty roar,<br>Startling in a man so hoar,<br>'Smite it, laddie! Smite it! Lord, the young 'uns lack the brawn!'<br>But, as the cool of even comes to oust the day-long heat,<br>He is mindful of 'the missus.' ''Tis the rheumatiz,' he owns.<br>Then, shoulders back, grey head erect, he toddles down the street <br>Old Toll, the ex-smith, a brave old bag of bones.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Clarence+Michael+James+Stanislaus+Dennis">Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=357733" data-title="Old Town Types No.11 de Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis" data-description="As first I remember him: A red man, and tall,
Great Toll, the blacksmith, filled my childish eye.
At its first crisp, clamorous stroke,
Every morning I awoke
To the ringing of his anvil as the years lagged by.
And, when the season came for them, h..."></div>
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