The blacksmith in his sparky forge,Beat on the white-hot softness there;Even as he beat he sang an airTo keep the sparks out of his gorge.
So many shoes the blacksmith beat,So many shares and links for traces,So many builders' struts and braces,Such tackling for the chain-fore-sheet,
That, in his pride, big words he spake;"I am the master of my trade,What iron is good for I have made,I make what is in iron to make."
Daily he sang thus by his fire,Till one day, as he poised his strokeAbove his bar, the iron spoke,"You boaster, drop your hammer, liar."
The hammer dropped out of his hand,The iron rose, it gathered shape,It took the blacksmith by the nape,It pressed him to the furnace, and
Heaped fire upon him till his formWas molten, flinging sparks aloft,Until his bones were melted soft,His hairs crisped in a fiery storm.
The iron drew him from the blazeTo place him on the anvil, thenIt beat him from the shape of men,Like drugs the apothecary brays;
Beat him to ploughing-coulters, beatBody and blood to links of chain,With endless hammerings of pain,Unending torment of white heat;
And did not stop the work, but stillBeat on him while the furnace roared;The blacksmith suffered and implored,With iron bonds upon his will.
And, though he could not die nor shrink,He felt his being beat by forceTo horse shoes stamped on by the horse,And into troughs whence cattle drink.
He felt his blood, his dear delight,Beat into shares, he felt it riveThe green earth red; he was alive,Dragged through the earth by horses' might.
He felt his brain, that once had plannedHis daily life, changed to a chainWhich curbed a sail or dragged a wain,Or hoisted ship-loads to the land.
He felt his heart, that once had thrilledWith love of wife and little ones,Cut out and mingled with his bonesTo pin the bricks where men rebuilt.
He felt his very self impelledTo common uses, till he cried,"There's more within me than is tried,More than you ever think to weld.
"For all my pain I am only usedTo make the props for daily labour;I burn, I am beaten like a taborTo make men tools; I am abused.
"Deep in the white heat where I gaspI see the unmastered finer powers,Iron by cunning wrought to flowers,File-worked, not tortured by the rasp.
"Deep in this fire-tortured mindThought bends the bar in subtler ways,It glows into the mass, its raysPurge, till the iron is refined.
"Then, as the full moon draws the tideOut of the vague uncaptained sea,Some moon power there ought to beTo work on ore; it should be tried.
"By this fierce fire in which I acheI see new fires not yet begun,A blacksmith smithying with the sun,At unmade things man ought to make.
"Life is not fire and blows, but thought,Attention kindling into joy,Those who make nothing new destroy,O me, what evil I have wrought.
"O me," and as he moaned he sawHis iron master shake, he feltNo blow, nor did the fire meltHis flesh, he was released from law.
He sat upon the anvil topDazed, as the iron was dazed, he tookStrength, seeing that the iron shook,He said, "This cruel time must stop."
He seized the iron and held him fastWith pincers, in the midmost blaze,A million sparks went million ways,The cowhorn handle plied the blast.
"Burn, then," he cried; the fire was white,The iron was whiter than the fire.The fireblast made the embers twire,The blacksmith's arm began to smite.
First vengeance for old pain, and thenBeginning hope of better things,Then swordblades for the sides of KingsAnd corselets for the breasts of men.
And crowns and such like joys and gems.And stars of honour for the pure,Jewels of honour to endure,Beautiful women's diadems.
And coulters, sevenfold-twinned, to rend,And girders to uphold the tower,Harness for unimagined power,New ships to make the billows bend,
And stores of fire-compelling thingsBy which men dominate and pierceThe iron-imprisoned universeWhere angels lie with banded wings.
