And did not stop the work, but still Beat on him while the furnace roared. The blacksmith suffered and implored, With iron bonds upon his will. And, though he could not die nor shrink, He felt his being beat by force To horseshoes stamped on by the horse, And into troughs whence cattle drink. He felt his blood, his dear delight, Beat into shares, he felt it rive The green earth red; he was alive, Dragged through the earth by horses' might. He felt his brain, that once had planned His daily life, changed to a chain Which curbed a sail or dragged a wain, Or hoisted shiploads to the land. He felt his heart, that once had thrilled With love of wife and little ones, Cut out and mingled with his bones To pin the bricks where men rebuild. He felt his very self impelled To common uses, till he cried: "There's more within me than is tried, More than you ever think to weld. "For all my pain I am only used To make the props for daily labour; I burn, I am beaten like a tabour To make men tools: I am abused. "Deep in the white heat where I gasp I see the unmastered finer powers. Iron by cunning wrought to flowers, File-worked, not tortured by the rasp. "Deep in this fire-tortured mind Thought bends the bar in subtler ways; It glows into the mass, its rays Purge, till the iron is refined. "Then, as the full moon draws the tide Out of the vague uncaptained sea. Some moony-power there ought to be To work on ore; it should be tried. "By this fierce fire in which I ache I see new fires not yet begun, A blacksmith smithying with the sun, At unmade things man ought to make. "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. First vengeance for old pain, and then Beginning hope of better things; Then swordblades for the sides of Kings And corselets for the breasts of men; And crowns and such-like joys and gems, And stars of honour for the pure, Jewels of honour to endure, Beautiful women's diadems; And coulters, sevenfold-twinned, to rend, And girders to uphold the tower, Harness for unimagined power, New ships to make the billows bend;