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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=409805" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>The Village Blacksmith</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Under a spreading chestnut tree<br>The village smithy stands;<br>The smith, a might man is he,<br>With large and sinewy hands;<br>And the muscles of his brawney arms<br>Are strong as iron bands. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">His hair is crisp, and black, and long,<br>His face is like the tan;<br>His brow is wet with honest sweat,<br>He earns what'er he can,<br>And looks the whole word in the face,<br>For he owes not any man. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Week in, week out, from morn till night,<br>You can hear the bellows blow;<br>You can hear him swing his might sledge,<br>With measure beat and slow,<br>Like a sexton ringing the village bell,<br>When the evening sun is low. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">And children coming home from school<br>Look in the open door;<br>They love to see the flaming forge,<br>And hear the bellows roar.<br>And catch the flaming sparks that fly<br>Like chaff from a threshing floor. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">He goes on Sunday to the church,<br>And sits among his boys;<br>He hears the parson pray and preach,<br>He hears his daughter's voice,<br>Singing in the choir, <br>And it makes his heart rejoice. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">It sounds to him like his mother's voice,<br>Singing in Paradise!<br>He needs must think of her once more,<br>How in the grave she lies;<br>And with his hard, rough hands he wipes<br>A tear out of his eyes. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Toiing, -- rejoicing, -- sorrowing,<br>Onward in life he goes;<br>Each morning sees some task begin,<br>Each evening sees it close;<br>Something attempted, something done,<br>Has earned his night's repose. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend,<br>For the lesson thou has taught!<br>Thus at the flaming forge of life<br>Our fortunes must be wrought;<br>Thus on its sounding anvil shaped<br>Each burning deed and thought.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Henry+Wadsworth+Longfellow">Henry Wadsworth Longfellow</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=409805" data-title="The Village Blacksmith de Henry Wadsworth Longfellow" data-description="Under a spreading chestnut tree
The village smithy stands;
The smith, a might man is he,
With large and sinewy hands;
And the muscles of his brawney arms
Are strong as iron bands. 

His hair is crisp, and black, and long,
His face is like the tan;..."></div>
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