Blacksmith Shop
The younger generation do not know The charm and pleasure of a blacksmith shop: With low-hung roof, grey and devoid of paint, And small-paned windows streaked with smoke and dust.
Outside, the ground was worn as hard as flint From restless pawing of a hundred hoofs; Within, a certain acrid smell arose, A mixture of cold cinders and new steam, As much a part of the whole place as was The wide-built chimney or the smith himself.
In semidarkness we could see the flame Of burning coals poked and raked back and forth And blown red by the teen-age boy, who leaned His elbows on the blackened well-worn stick, And pumped the bellows slowly up and down; A superman he really seemed to us, Who never spoke or looked our way at all.
The strong-armed smithy with his iron tongs Skilfully pulled from out the glowing fire The rough embryonic making of a shoe, And with a grace born of long years of toil Placed it upon the shining anvil’s top: There in a shower of golden sparks he made Something of which a man could well be proud; As it was plunged into the water tub We waited for the pleasant hissing sound.
O blacksmith shop. O callow envied boy, Children to-day have never known our joy.