Classic Poem

Folk profane, I 'd have ye know it
That the poet
Is no merry-andrew, able
By his vulgar tricks to waste the
Bread and taste the
Dainties at another's table.

And still less is he a lazy
Fool, in hazy
Day-dreams wrapt, for ever spying
After angels, head in air
In despair
To see naught but martins flying.

Nor is he a garden lover,
Such as over
Life's path scatters with the spade his
Rich manure, and men-folk dowers
With cabbage flowers,
Keeping violets for the ladies.

The poet is a mighty blacksmith,
Whose broad back 's with
Iron muscles furrowed: daily
He, with pride of strength invested,
Works, bare-chested,
Sinewy-armed, and smiling gaily.

Ere the twitter of birds gives warning
Of glad morning
On the hill hath he descended,
And with roaring bellows wakes the
Flame that makes the
Forge, whereat he labours, splendid.

And the firelight boldly dances,
Sparkles, glances,
Glowing red with rosy flashes;
Then it hisseth, then it roareth,
Then it soareth
Upward, crackling from the ashes.

God, who smiles upon the poet,
Knows—for know it
I do not—the art wherewith the
Eager smith wists how to throw in
To the glowing
Flames, which light his wondrous smithy,

Love and thought, pure as pure ore is,
All the glories
Of his nation and his fathers.
Past and Future in one shining
Mass combining
He within his furnace gathers.

Then he grips the mass and holds it
While he moulds it
On the anvil, singing ever
As he hammers. And the sunrise
Glows upon his
Brow and rude toil, ceasing never.

He hammers! Lo, when Freedom charges,
Swords and targes
For her valiant warriors welded!
Lo, wreaths destined for victorious
Heroes, glorious
Crowns to Queens of Beauty yielded.

He hammers! Lo, rich sanctuáries
For the Lares
And their age-long rites intended!
Tripods lo, and altar-pieces
Lo, rare friezes.
Massy goblets rich and splendid.

For himself the poor smith taketh
Gold, and maketh
Thence a shaft, and shoots it sunward,
Asking but to watch it flying
Radiant, high in
Heaven, ever upward, onward.