The Village Blacksmith

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 the 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 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,

Onwards 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!

By Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.

I heard this poem read in church a few weeks ago and it really stuck with me.  I think there are some great lessons to be learned from this man.  Stay busy is probably the best one for me.  It sounds to me like he earned all the good nights of sleep he got while he was thinking about his wife in paradise.  He kept his faith;  He stayed out of debt; He continued to live a good life. 

I used to love to write poetry.  I remember filling notebooks of it when I was a kid.  It was one of my favorite classes in college.  I haven't done it for years.  Keith used to write a lot too.  I guess we just got too busy with life to give the time and effort it takes to write poetry.  I certainly have the deep well of churning emotions now.  Maybe I'll give it a try.