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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,