Click here to listen to "Ye Olde Wordsmith" With each blow sparks flew out into the air,
Traces of light whose hot, incandescent flashing streaks
Scorched their marks in the nothingness that previously existed, leaving
Only a hint of the Toil, and strife, and Sweat of the Smithie as he
labored with his tools. Blow after blow, so hard-hitting and mighty
Sent sparks issuing forth again and again and again;
How hard it must be to shape such an ethereal mass, to change its form,
To force it into line with that which it is supposed to be
or, at least, that which is desired. Ahh ... finished at last, the smithie straightened and
Wiped his brow, a smile slowly creasing his once-sterned visage;
Laying aside his tools, he moved away from his anvil, peering at his work;
Turning it back and forth in the light to inspect every side, every angle, every possible view. Satisfied at last, the Smithie drew a great breath.
And with audible sigh he released all of the pent-up tension built
From this last, Great effort; this fusion of this emotion with will,
of thought with material;
His work now finished, he folded it carefully and slipped it inside the envelope, hoping the Editor
Would like his Poem.