The Village Blacksmith Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

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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 bear the bellows roar,
And catch the burning sparks that fly
        Like chaff from a threshing-floor.