Literature and Art 



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, re j oicing, 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. 



Henry W. Longfellow. 



Write the story of this poem in your own words, letting each 

 paragraph tell about one of the following topics : 



The blacksmith and his shop. 



The blacksmith's work, and what the children like about it. 



What the blacksmith does on Sunday. 



