Page:Lollingdon Downs and other poems, Masefield, 1917.djvu/34

28 Life is not fire and blows, but thought,

Attention kindling into joy,

Those who make nothing new destroy,

O me, what evil I have wrought.

"O me," and as he moaned he saw

His iron master shake, he felt

No blow, nor did the fire melt

His flesh, he was released from law.

He sat upon the anvil top

Dazed, as the iron was dazed, he took

Strength, seeing that the iron shook,

He said, "This cruel time must stop."

He seized the iron and held him fast

With pincers, in the midmost blaze,

A million sparks went million ways,

The cowhorn handle plied the blast.

"Burn, then," he cried; the fire was white,

The iron was whiter than the fire.

The fireblast made the embers twire,

The blacksmith's arm began to smite.