Blacksmiths with grimed and hairy chests environ the anvil, Each has their main-sledge, all of them are out, there is certainly a great temperature in the fire.

Blacksmiths with grimed and hairy chests environ the anvil, Each has their main-sledge, all of them are out, there is certainly a great temperature in the fire.

The lithe sheer of their waists plays even with their massive arms, Overhand the hammers swing, overhand so slow, overhand so sure, They do not hasten, each man hits in his place from the cinder-strew’d threshold I follow their movements.

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