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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=409849" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Village Blacksmith, The</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Under a spreading chestnut tree<br> The village smithy stands;<br> The Smith, a mighty man is he,<br> With large and sinewy hands;<br> And the muscles of his brawny 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 whate'er he can<br> And looks the whole world 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 his bellows blow;<br> You can hear him swing his heavy sledge,<br> With measured 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 at the open door;<br>They love to see the flaming furge,<br> And hear the bellows roar,<br>And catch the burning 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;</div><div style="margin:10px 0">He hears the parson pray and preach.<br> He hears his daughter's voice<br>singing in the village choir,<br> And it makes his heart rejoice.<br>It sounds to him like her 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 hand he wipes<br> A tear out of his eyes.<br>Toiling, rejoicing,-sorrowing,<br> Onward through life he goes;<br>Each morning sees some task begin,<br> Each evening sees it close;<br>Something attempted, something done,<br> Has earned a night's repose.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend<br> For the lesson thou hast 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=409849" data-title="Village Blacksmith, The de Henry Wadsworth Longfellow" data-description="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 th..."></div>
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