Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (1807-1882)has been called "The most popular poet of his day". An inspiration to poets such as Edgar Allen Poe, he wrote for the "common people." So popular was Longfellow, that his image was used in advertising at the time and his was a household name. To date, he is the only American poet whose sculpted bust in the "Poet's Corner" at the Westminster Abby in London.

One of his popular poems of the time, "The Village Blacksmith", details the lesson and value of hard work. In this poem, longfellow emphasizes an honest day's work, earning a living without owing others, and the peace and rest that follows the completion of a task. He compares life with the blacksmith's forge- Each thoughts and deed of life shaping our path.

So popular was this poem, that when the chestnut tree, mentioned in the first line of this poem, was cut down- it was made into an armchair and presented back to Longfellow as a gift.

As you go through your days, remember that you are forging out the path of your own life- a lesson taught by Longfellow's blacksmith.

THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

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