Live and Learn
Sep. 14, 2006
A Lovely Poem by Longfellow
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Oldest ds is currently reading poetry by
Longfellow and Kipling. Sometimes we read together, other times he
reads independently. Along with reading some great poetry and getting
to know the poets behind them, an unexpected byproduct has been the
sharing and conversations that have taken place. Ds and I often talk
about a poem after reading together ~ it's a wonderful opportunity to
talk about the issues of life. Much to my surprise and pleasure,
though, several times now ds has sought me out after reading
independently - "Mom" he'll call, "you've got to read this." "You'll
like it." Such was the case the other day when we sat down to read together. As I flipped through the pages he said "Stop there, you've got to read that one. It's great." He was right - I loved it. I thought it so simply and beautifully portrayed some of the basic emotions and virtues of life. I thought I'd share it here. The Village Blacksmith by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow Under a spreading chestnut-tree The village smith 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 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, rought 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 it 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; Thus on its sounding anvil shaped Each burning deed and thought. |
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