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 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, Onward through
life he goes; Each morning sees some task begin, Each evening
sees its 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;

By ( Henry Wadsworth Longfellow ) { IN HONOR OF MY MOTHER }( A Video Slide Show With My Mother Reading The Poem: The Village Black Smith. )