The Poet's Forge

Poem By Helen Hunt Jackson

He lies on his back, the idling smith,
A lazy, dreaming fellow is he;
The sky is blue, or the sky is gray,
He lies on his back the livelong day,
Not a tool in sight, say what they may,
A curious sort of smith is he.

The powers of the air are in league with him;
The country around believes it well;
The wondering folk draw spying near;
Never sight nor sound do they see or hear;
No wonder they feel a little fear;
When is it his work is done so well?

Never sight nor sound to see or hear;
The powers of the air are in league with him;
High over his head his metals swing,
Fine gold and silver to shame the king;
We might distinguish their glittering,
If once we could get in league with him.

High over his head his metals swing;
He hammers them idly year by year,
Hammers and chuckles a low refrain:
"A bench and a book are a ball and a chain,
The adze is a better tool than the plane;
What's the odds between now and next year?"

Hammers and chuckles his low refrain,
A lazy, dreaming fellow is he:
When sudden, some day, his bells peal out,
And men, at the sound, for gladness shout;
He laughs and asks what it's all about;
Oh, a curious sort of smith is he.

Comments about The Poet's Forge

The Smith He rest his hammer alongside the wall And ask the boy that turns the bellows to not stop at all For the coals must glow and yield the heat Which when he returns to the metal, beat. For in his mind's eye a shape is formed That will impart a meaning not to be scorned Twisted and hammered until the poetry At once will be his mark on history. The smell of sulphur fills the air As the blazing heat produces a char So this day the poem will be an acrid one That burns the eyes and heart of some. For he writes of the day when the world stood still And gave thanks for the men and women who ever will Give up their time on earth to others As THEY are our sisters and brothers. And the sound of his anvil is loud and clear - Give thanks for those who are far and near. s


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