Monday, March 9, 2009

The Village Blacksmith (BSM)

The Village Smithy

My BSM for this week is The Village Blacksmith. This was taken at Grape Park in Escondido last week, during a visit to the local Children's Museum. We had some nice cool, cloudy days for a change with little bits of sprinkles here and there. We had a nice visit with my friend Julie and her granddaughter Raylyn. More photos in my flickr set.

This photo reminds me of a poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, which reminds me of my nana, who used to recite it and act it out for us when we were little and living in England. Just picture a nana with long gray hair, down to her waist, reciting this with her fist clenched up and with lots of conviction. It was marvelous. I miss her.... She lives on through our poetry readings at my girls' nana's house once in awhile... : )

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 haul, rough hand he wipes

A tear out of his eyes.


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.

More wonderful images can be found over atTracey's Mother May I where Tracey is celebrating teachers this week with lovely images of pinkness!

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