Iron till it be thoroughly heated is incapable to be wrought; so God sees good to cast some men into the furnace of affliction, and then beats them on his anvil into what frame he pleases.
quote by Anne Bradstreet
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Related quotes
Steel on Steel
Strength in each and every part
needs no paltry poet's art
to picture peerless tensile worth
which rhymes through time in class apart
to show glow's incandescent birth.
Hammers heated chain links bind
furnace features, anvil mind,
steel represents upon this Earth.
From forceful freedom's furnace find
fragility, flaws left behind.
18 October 2011
poem by Jonathan Robin
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Wrought iron is woman.
A raw iron is made to lava by puberty,
Cast to mould by consummation,
And solidified by child birth,
After which it is a wrought iron, the woman
07.05.2003
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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The Fitzroy Blacksmith
Under the spreading deficit,
The Fitzroy Smithy stands;
The smith, a spendthrift man is he,
With too much on his hands;
But the muscles of his brawny jaw
Are strong as iron bands.
Pay out, pay put, from morn till night,
You can hear the sovereigns go;
Or you'll hear him singing "Old Folks at Home",
In a deep bass voice and slow,
Like a bullfrog down in the village well
When the evening sun is low.
The Australian going "home" for loans
Looks in at the open door;
He loves to see the imported plant,
And to hear the furnace roar,
And to watch the private firms smash up
Like chaff on the threshing-floor.
Toiling, rejoicing, borrowing,
Onward through life he goes;
Each morning sees some scheme begun
That never sees its close.
Something unpaid for, someone done,
Has earned a night's repose.
poem by Andrew Barton Paterson
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God's way of answering the Christian's prayer for more patience, experience, hope and love often is to put him into the furnace of affliction.
quote by Richard Cecil
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Four In The Furnace (Bible Poems For Children)
In a far away
land,
Lived a wicked
king.
He prayed to
idols and things.
He told his
people,
Where the idol
stood.
They must pray,
and be good.
Into a furnace,
you will go,
If you, do not bow
low.
Three christian
men, lived there,
Believed in God,
All the way from
Israel they
trod.
Bow, the king,
told them so,
We believe in God,
our answer is no.
Make a fire, hot
as can be.
Who is your God?
We shall see.
Into the furnace,
you will go,
I'll test your God,
then we will know.
In the furnace, the
king saw four.
Quickly, he shouted,
open the door.
Your God is in the
furnace, I see,
I now, resign my
decree.
poem by Heather Burns
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The Tiger
Tyger! Tyger! burning bright
In the forest of the night
What immortal hand or eye
Could frame thy fearful symmetry?
In what distant deeps or skies
Burnt the fire of thine eyes?
On what wings dare he aspire?
What the hand dare seize the fire?
And What shoulder, and what art,
Could twist the sinews of thy heart?
And when thy heart began to beat,
What dread hand? and what dread feet?
What the hammer? what the chain?
In what furnace was thy brain?
What the anvil? what dread grasp
Dare its deadly terrors clasp?
When the stars threw down their spears,
And watered heaven with their tears,
Did he smile his work to see?
Did he who made the lamb make thee?
Tyger! Tyger! burning bright
In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye
Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?
poem by William Blake
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Racing Wind Destination Unknown
gotta go now gotta go soon
racing wind destination unknown
embracing journey knowing arrivals
are but staging grounds foundations
preparing new growth departures
this life our testing by fire purification
embrace fire embrace life embrace decisions
iron ore not tested purified by fire
can never be furnace cast finest steal
yes know this ore is tortured in furnace
only in struggle testing soul is purification
achieved in soul journey to state nirvana
motivated by pain perceived great passion
all sentient beings face trial transformation
poem by Terence George Craddock
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The Tyger
Tyger, tyger, burning bright
In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye
Could frame thy fearful symmetry?
In what distant deeps or skies
Burnt the fire of thine eyes?
On what wings dare he aspire?
What the hand dare seize the fire?
And what shoulder and what art
Could twist the sinews of thy heart?
And, when thy heart began to beat,
What dread hand and what dread feet?
What the hammer? what the chain?
In what furnace was thy brain?
What the anvil? what dread grasp
Dare its deadly terrors clasp?
When the stars threw down their spears,
And watered heaven with their tears,
Did He smile His work to see?
Did He who made the lamb make thee?
Tyger, tyger, burning bright
In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye
Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?
poem by William Blake
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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The Tiger by William Blake
Tiger! Tiger! burning bright
In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye
Could frame thy fearful symmetry?
In what distant deeps or skies
Burnt the fire of thine eyes?
On what wings dare he aspire?
What the hand dare seize the fire?
And what shoulder and what art,
Could twist the sinews of thy heart?
And when thy heart began to beat,
What dread hand and what dread feet?
What the hammer? what the chain?
In what furnace was thy brain?
What the anvil? what dread grasp
Dare its deadly terrors clasp?
When the stars threw down their spears,
And watered heaven with their tears,
Did he smile his work to see?
Did he who made the Lamb make thee?
Tiger! Tiger! burning bright
In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye
Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?
World Economic Forum
The world economic climate
is slipping down a slippery slope
all blind Swiss analysis sees
is seamless digital PC data shifts
iron age fossil furnace defences
are melting massive ice caps
global warming sea level rising
corrective measures made lukewarm.
Who will take the heat?
Who will weather the storm?
poem by Terence George Craddock
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The Village Blacksmith
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;
His brow is wet with honest sweat,
He earns what'er he can,
And looks the whole word in the face,
For he owes not any man.
Week in, week out, from morn till night,
You can hear the bellows blow;
You can hear him swing his might sledge,
With measure beat and slow,
Like a sexton ringing the village bell,
When the evening sun is low.
And children coming home from school
Look in the open door;
They love to see the flaming forge,
And hear the bellows roar.
And catch the flaming 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 choir,
And it makes his heart rejoice.
It sounds to him like his 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 hands he wipes
A tear out of his eyes.
Toiing, -- rejoicing, -- sorrowing,
Onward in life he goes;
Each morning sees some task begin,
Each evening sees it close;
Something attempted, something done,
Has earned his night's repose.
Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend,
For the lesson thou has taught!
Thus at the flaming forge of life
Our fortunes must be wrought;
Thus on its sounding anvil shaped
Each burning deed and thought.
poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
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Cast Iron Arm
Orbison/petty/wilson
1957 johhny peanuts wilson
The other night me and my girl went bowling
The other night me and my girl went bowling
Went to a place called joes thats where everybody goes
When we walked in she turned every face in the place
When we walked in she turned every face in the place
A cool number jumped up and made a play for my girl
I said come on boy
I said dont mess with me cos I got a cast iron arm
I said dont mess with me cos I got a cast iron arm
Oh when you you mess with me that only rings my alarm
Well the music was a-rockin and the place was a-jumpin with jive
Well the music was a-rockin and the place was a-jumpin with jive
Well the same cool number made the same wrong move
I hit him in the head
I said dont mess with me cos I got a cast iron arm
I said dont mess with me cos I got a cast iron arm
Oh when you you mess with me that only rings my alarm
I said dont mess with me cos I got a cast iron arm
I said dont mess with me cos I got a cast iron arm
Oh when you you mess with me that only rings my alarm
song performed by by Roy Orbison
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The path of pleasure
To punish pleases us
And to pardon does as well.
To revenge pleases us
And to pity does as well.
To pride pleases us
And to be humble does as well.
If getting pleased is the goal
The wise will chose the second.
23.09.2012
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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Village Blacksmith, The
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 furge,
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 at the flaming forge of life
Our fortunes must be wrought;
Thus on its sounding anvil shaped
Each burning deed and thought!
poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
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Steel Of Dreams
I write to forge thought
to timelessness..
as night gives way to light of day
morning rays transform
gray-scale vision
with magical, gradient, immaculate precision.
I write forging images
cold-rolled dialect
hammered for description
angles I select..
pulled red from the coals
these dreams are annealed
when shape is set,
feelings are revealed.
My anvil and hammer
transform wrought iron vision
with artistic, splendid, immaculate precision!
poem by Robert Scott Cohn
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Hammer the iron that lies on your anvil instead of daydreaming about working silver.
Robert Jordan in The Wheel of Time
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Drummer
1
The drummer beats slowly, the drummer beats loud
As he beats of Humanity wrapped in a shroud.
Well he beats of the bone bags Dame Famine's designed
As she ravished and plagued us since dawn of mankind;
And he beats of Lord Boss letting oranges decay
While a child suffers scurvy and passes away;
And he beats of the beasts we've so needlessly slain
And of critters and creatures cast off in distain;
And he beats of combatants who're dying deceived
As the merchants of murder count profits received;
And he beats of the rape and the killing of war
And the mind blinding sorrow we blithely ignore.
He beats and he pounds till our consciences gnaw
And his fingers are battered and bloody and raw
And his hands are all broken and bleeding and raw.
2
The drummer beats slowly, the drummer beats loud
As he beats of abuse that we try to becloud.
Well he beats of the barons and princes and kings
Who have broken our backs while crushing our wings
And he beats of the bribes that the powerful make
To key politicians who fawn in their wake;
And he beats of the waifs bound and chained to machines
And of slaves in the fields and other such scenes;
And he beats of decrees stating all men are free
While ignoring the blacks and their agonised plea;
And he beats of the tyrants in clerical garb
Who have tortured with faggots and thumbscrews and barb.
He beats and he pounds till revealing the flaw
And his fingers are battered and bloody and raw
And his hands are all broken and bleeding and raw.
3
The drummer beats slowly, the drummer beats loud
As he beats of the strength of the rebels so proud.
Well he beats of the spirit the rack couldn't break,
And the flame of the flesh that was burned at the stake;
And he beats of the minds that could never be chained
By the faith that was living while ignorance reigned;
And he beats of the struggles when Spartacus rose
Having tired of shackles and slavery's woes;
And he beats of the women who'll die to be freed
And will never give up till they finally succeed;
And he beats of the progress outliving the jeers
So belying the pessimist's fatuous sneers.
He beats and he pounds till we stand back in awe
And his fingers are battered and bloody and raw
And his hands are all broken and bleeding and raw.
4
The drummer beats slowly, the drummer beats loud
As he beats of the sights that he's seen from a cloud.
Well he beats of the meadows pale yellow and green
And of lakes in a wood and a river serene;
And he beats of the passion when lovers have lain
With their bodies entwined midst a field of lush grain;
And he beats of the joy when a mother has smiled
While she's nursing her baby, her newly born child;
And he beats of the sorrow upwelling inside
Leaving shadows and ruins when loved ones have died;
And he beats of faint images haunting his dream
Of a time when compassion and love reign supreme.
He beats and he pounds till we see what he saw
And his fingers are battered and bloody and raw
And his hands are all broken and bleeding and raw.
***
The drummer beats slowly, the drummer beats loud
And he beats of Humanity wrapped in a shroud
And he beats of abuse that we try to becloud.
And he beats of the strength of the rebels so proud so proud.
And he beats of the sights that he's seen from a cloud.
And he beats and he pounds till our consciences gnaw
And he beats and he pounds till revealing the flaw
And he beats and he pounds till we stand back in awe
And he beats and he pounds till we see what he saw
And his fingers are battered and bloody and raw
And his hands are all broken and bleeding and raw.
And his hands are all broken... and bleeding... and raw...
poem by Terry O'Leary
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This Our Crucible Gifts
this is our crucible
our trial by fire
in molten furnace
we are smeltered
by conflict ordeals
we like ores dug
from yield earth
contain impurities
imperfections
character flaws
we fail to rise above
which limits nobility
of mind impedes us
from quest embracing
enlightening harmony
catalysis furnace
is severe ordeal
life trials killing
off fatal our soul
impurities as iron
ore is tortured
in blast furnace
so are we tortured
broken crushed
liquefied recast
reshaped into new
being like iron ore
we are born free
of dross slag purified
into finest pure steel
thus experience
insight vision
pierces perplexing
problematic realities
with pulse passion’s
need we gift
unguarded
“noblest prayers
to bestow upon
others an eternity
of light
in beautified
likeness of purity
immortality'
fleeting moments
Quotation from the poem ‘An Eternity Of Light’ by Terence George Craddock.
poem by Terence George Craddock
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Iron may be rubbed so long that it gets heated.
Time
Times a teacher yesterday
You know I had nothing but time
Whyd you have to go away
I never got to tell you goodbye
And time beats up on me
Life is funny, life is strange
You know Im just trying to get by
Money, honey, buys you things
It cant buy a place in the sky
And time beats up on you
Another year disappeared
Where did it go?
People ask me
Whats the time
I really dont know
I really dont know
I really dont
I really dont know
And time beats up on you
And time beats up on you
Time beats up on
Time beats up on
Time beats up on
Time beats up on
Time beats up on me
Beats up on you
Beats up on you
song performed by by Fastball
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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