Through chimney, window, door, and cleft, poured blushes on the night.
The morning shows its azure breast and scarf of silvery fleece,
The margin-grass is group’d with cows, and spotted with the geese;
On the dew-wet green by the smithy, there’s a circle of crackling fire,
Hurrah! how it blazes and curls around the coal-man’s welded tire!
While o’er it, with tongs, are the smith and his man, to fit it when cherry-red,
To the tilted wheel of the huge grim’d ark in the back-ground of the shed.
There’s a stony field on the ridge to plough, and Brindle must be shod,
And at noon, through the lane from the farm-house, I see him slowly plod;
In the strong frame, chewing his cud, he patiently stands, but see!