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After a long time I visited my home town Anayat Kali Bajaur. This town is situated near the borderline of Pakistan and Afghanistan currently under the control of Pakistan since 1962. Yesterday in morning I visited local market at Anayat Kalay . I met with blacksmith Nazir Khan working in his shop for the last seven years. Father of Nazir Khan is also a famous blacksmith of this area. This workshop established by his father 30 years ago when Anayatkali was a small village. Azam Khan father of Nazir was the only blacksmith of the village. I remember a good poem of the American poet HW Longfellow. Title of the poem was “ The village Blacksmith”. Longfellow emphasizes how the life and work of a common working man can provide an example of persistence and accomplishment in spite of trials and tragedies. I have searched the poem and read it again. Pleasure of reading the poem was the same as 25 years back when I was student of English literature. https://www.enotes.com/topics/village-blacksmith/in-depth
In this poem Longfellow portraying the workplace of the blacksmith in very interesting manner. 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, 5. 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.
http://www.bartleby.com/102/59.html
The Village Blacksmith
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.
http://www.hwlongfellow.org/poems_poem.php?pid=38
