The Village Blacksmith by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow 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 forge, 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