PAIN is a blacksmith, Hard is his hammer; With flying flames His hearth is hot; A straining storm Of forces ferocious Blows his bellows. He hammers hearts And tinkers them, With blows tremendous, Till hard they hold. Well, well forges Pain. No storm destroys, No frost consumes, No rust corrodes, What Pain has forged. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...DAWN BEHIND NIGHT by ISAAC ROSENBERG THE FLOOD OF YEARS by WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT SHERMAN'S MARCH TO THE SEA by SAMUEL HAWKINS MARSHALL BYERS THE AMERICAN FOREST GIRL by FELICIA DOROTHEA HEMANS READING LESSON by ANNA LETITIA BARBAULD WHITSUNDAY 1644 by JOSEPH BEAUMONT |