Poems (Jackson)/The Poet's Forge

by Helen Hunt Jackson

THE POET'S FORGE.

E lies on his back, the idling smith,
 A lazy, dreaming fellow is he;
The sky is blue, or the skyis gray,
He lies on his back the livelong day,
Not a tool in sight; say what they may,
 A curious sort of a smith is he.

The powers of the air are in league with him;
 The country around believes it well;
The wondering folk draw spying near;
Never sight nor sound do they see or hear;
No wonder they feel a little fear;
 When is it his work is done so well?

Never sight nor sound to see or hear;
 The powers of the air are in league with him;
High over his head his metals swing,
Fine gold and silver to shame the king;
We might distinguish their glittering,
 If once we could get in league with him.

High over his head his metals swing;
 He hammers them idly year by year,
Hammers and chuckles a low refrain:
"A bench and book are a ball and chain,
The adze is better tool than the plane;
 What 's the odds between now and next year?"

Hammers and chuckles his low refrain,
 A lazy, dreaming fellow is he:
When sudden, some day, his bells peal out,
And men, at the sound, for gladness shout;
He laughs and asks what it 's all about;
 Oh, a curious sort of smith is he!