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 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!

The lashed silk wraps you in raw gold:
Your shoulders flexed, your subtle hips
Swaying to rhythms that were old
When first Columbus begged for ships.

Old as the mountains: flowing forth
From dark to bright as your arms flow
Upward like swallows darting north,
Downward like their swerved wings that know

When on the instant to wheel south.
Against the purring castanets
Is set the secret of your mouth,
A crafty scarlet that forgets.

Your gypsy heels beat fierce tattoo:
An arabesque of sudden pain.
Vehement, glowing, who are you?
What is the meaning of this Spain?

Your skirt flares tense with intricate turning
And gay tormented sequins clink.
You give us only time for learning
To feel, to suffer…not to think.