Ah then that sharp anvil!
“Swank! swank! swank!” rang the blows of that stalwort blacksmith, and a smutty faced lad that he called “son!”
“Son!” oh how I wished I had his throat in my strong and well-knit muscles —
I would have torn it as the wild wolf tears the throat of the deer —
But as for the stalwort blacksmith, I was afraid of him —
So I lay and let him smite me.
Then I felt myself beaten into a shape—the welcome shape of the axe —
And I laughed,
For the axe was made for slaughter —
Then I was taken from the burly blacksmith’s,