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...PEACE by WILLIAM CARLOS WILLIAMS TO TIRZAH, FR. SONGS OF EXPERIENCE by WILLIAM BLAKE FORECLOSURE by STERLING ALLEN BROWN BETSY'S BATTLE FLAG by MINNA IRVING SONNET: 10. TO THE LADY MARGARET LEY by JOHN MILTON TO MRS. AIKIN by ANNA LETITIA BARBAULD TO MRS. PRIESTLEY, WITH SOME DRAWINGS OF BIRDS AND INSECTS by ANNA LETITIA BARBAULD |