Close Close Previous Poem Next Poem Follow Us on Twitter! Poem of the Day Award Follow Us on Facebook! Follow Us on Twitter! Follow Us on Pinterest! Follow Our Youtube Channel! Follow Our RSS Feed! envelope star quill

Poems About Hard Work

Table of Contents

  1. Ten True Friends by Anonymous
  2. The Village Blacksmith by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
  3. The Heritage by James Russell Lowell
  4. Reapers by Mathilde Blind
  5. The Thumb by Amos Russel Wells
  6. Morning by Jane Taylor
  7. A Good Sleep by Anonymous
  8. The Song of the Bee by Marian Douglas
  9. The Blacksmith by Anonymous
  10. On the bleakness of my lot by Emily Dickinson
  11. Work by Eliza Cook
  12. Little by Little by Anonymous
  13. The Seedling by Laurence Dunbar
  14. Joy and Labor by William Francis Barnard
  1. Ease by Raymond Garfield Dandridge
  2. A Sailor Ballad by Ruby Archer
  3. The Grasshoper and the Ant by Hannah Flagg Gould
  4. Be Strong by Maltbie Davenport Babcock
  5. "How Doth the Little Busy Bee" by Isaac Watts
  6. The Butterfly and the Bee by William Lisle Bowles
  7. The Cheery Chewink by Anonymous
  8. The Swedish Wife by Henrietta Gould Rowe
  9. The Old Flax-Wheel by Virgil Viraldini Twitchell
  10. Firewood by Raymond Holden
  11. The Shoeing Forge by J. R. Eastwood
  12. Give Me An Ax by Douglas Malloch
  13. The Lumbermen by John Greenleaf Whittier
  14. Song of the Woodchopper by Eugene J. Hall
  15. The Way to Succeed by Peter Burn


What we obtain too cheap, we esteem too lightly: it is dearness only that gives every thing its value.

– Thomas Paine
The Crisis
Read aloud to Washington's Continental Army on Dec 23, 1776
  1. Ten True Friends

    by Anonymous

    Ten true friends you have,
    Who, five in a row,
    Upon each side of you
    Go where you go.

    Suppose you are sleepy,
    They help you to bed;
    Suppose you are hungry,
    They see that you are fed.

    They wake up your dolly
    And put on your clothes,
    And trundle her carriage
    Wherever she goes.

    And these ten tiny fellows,
    They serve you with ease;
    And they ask nothing from you,
    But work hard to please.

    Now, with ten willing servants
    So trusty and true,
    Pray who would be lazy
    Or idle—would you?

  2. The Village Blacksmith

    Toiling,—rejoicing,—sorrowing,
    Onward through life he goes;
    Each morning sees some task begin,
    Each evening sees it close
    Something attempted, something done,
    Has earned a night's repose.

    – Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
    The Village Blacksmith
    by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

    Under a spreading chestnut-tree
    The village smithy stands;
    The smith, a mighty man is he,
    With large and sinewy hands;
    And the muscles of his brawny arms
    Are strong as iron bands.

    His hair is crisp, and black, and long,
    His face is like the tan;
    His brow is wet with honest sweat,
    He earns whate'er he can,
    And looks the whole world in the face,
    For he owes not any man.

    Week in, week out, from morn till night,
    You can hear his bellows blow;
    You can hear him swing his heavy sledge,
    With measured beat and slow,
    Like a sexton ringing the village bell,
    When the evening sun is low.

    And children coming home from school
    Look in at the open door;
    They love to see the flaming forge,
    And hear the bellows roar,
    And catch the burning sparks that fly
    Like chaff from a threshing-floor.

    He goes on Sunday to the church,
    And sits among his boys;
    He hears the parson pray and preach,
    He hears his daughter's voice,
    Singing in the village choir,
    And it makes his heart rejoice.

    It sounds to him like her mother's voice,
    Singing in Paradise!
    He needs must think of her once more,
    How in the grave she lies;
    And with his hard, rough hand he wipes
    A tear out of his eyes.

    Toiling,—rejoicing,—sorrowing,
    Onward through life he goes;
    Each morning sees some task begin,
    Each evening sees it close
    Something attempted, something done,
    Has earned a night's repose.

    Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend,
    For the lesson thou hast taught!
    Thus at the flaming forge of life
    Our fortunes must be wrought;
    Thus on its sounding anvil shaped
    Each burning deed and thought.

  3. The Heritage

    Toil only gives the soul to shine,

    – James Russell Lowell
    The Heritage
    by James Russell Lowell

    The rich man's son inherits lands,
    And piles of brick, and stone, and gold,
    And he inherits soft white hands,
    And tender flesh that fears the cold,
    Nor dares to wear a garment old;
    A heritage, it seems to me,
    One scarce would wish to hold in fee.

    The rich man's son inherits cares;
    The bank may break, the factory burn,
    A breath may burst his bubble shares,
    And soft white hands could hardly earn
    A living that would serve his turn;
    A heritage, it seems to me,
    One scarce would wish to hold in fee.

    The rich man's son inherits wants,
    His stomach craves for dainty fare;
    With sated heart, he hears the pants
    Of toiling hinds with brown arms bare!
    And wearies in his easy-chair;
    A heritage, it seems to me,
    One scarce would wish to hold in fee.

    What doth the poor man's son inherit?
    Stout muscles and a sinewy heart,
    A hardy frame, a hardier spirit;
    King of two hands, he does his part
    In every useful toil and art;
    A heritage, it seems to me,
    A king might wish to hold in fee.

    What doth the poor man's son inherit?
    Wishes o'erjoyed with humble things,
    A rank adjudged by toil-won merit,
    Content that from employment springs,
    A heart that in his labor sings;
    A heritage, it seems to me,
    A king might wish to hold in fee.

    What doth the poor man's son inherit?
    A patience learned of being poor,
    Courage, if sorrow come, to bear it,
    A fellow-feeling that is sure
    To make the outcast bless his door;
    A heritage, it seems to me,
    A king might wish to hold in fee.

    O rich man's son! there is a toil
    That with all others level stands:
    Large charity doth never soil,
    But only whiten soft, white hands,—
    This is the best crop from thy lands;
    A heritage, it seems to me,
    Worth being rich to hold in fee.

    O poor man's son! scorn not thy state;
    There is worse weariness than thine
    In merely being rich and great:
    Toil only gives the soul to shine,
    And makes rest fragrant and benign;
    A heritage, it seems to me,
    Worth being poor to hold in fee.

    Both, heirs to some six feet of sod,
    Are equal in the earth at last;
    Both, children of the same dear God,
    Prove title to your heirship vast
    By record of a well-filled past;
    A heritage, it seems to me,
    Well worth a life to hold in fee.

  4. Reapers

    by Mathilde Blind

    Sun-tanned men and women, toiling there together;
    Seven I count in all, in yon field of wheat,
    Where the rich ripe ears in the harvest weather
    Glow an orange gold through the sweltering heat.

    Busy life is still, sunk in brooding leisure:
    Birds have hushed their singing in the hushed tree-tops;
    Not a single cloud mars the flawless azure;
    Not a shadow moves o'er the moveless crops;

    In the glassy shallows, that no breath is creasing,
    Chestnut-coloured cows in the rushes dank
    Stand like cows of bronze, save when they flick the teasing
    Flies with switch of tail from each quivering flank.

    Nature takes a rest—even her bees are sleeping,
    And the silent wood seems a church that's shut;
    But these human creatures cease not from their reaping
    While the corn stands high, waiting to be cut.

  5. The Thumb

    And hail to the men who are like the thumb;
    Men who are laboring, modestly dumb,
    Faithfully doing the work that is hard

    – Amos Russel Wells
    The Thumb
    by Amos Russel Wells

    Hail to the thumb, the useful thumb,
    The grasper, the holder, the doer of deeds,
    Where fingers are futile and tools succumb,
    Stolid, ungainly, the thumb succeeds.

    Hail to the thumb the homely thumb;
    Rings and jewels are not for it,
    Compliments, dainty and frolicsome,
    For fingers are suited, for thumbs unfit

    Hail to the thumb, the modest thumb;
    Gently und calmly it hides away,
    Never for it a banner and drum,
    Or praise at the end of a strenuous day.

    And hail to the men who are like the thumb;
    Men who are never sung by a bard,
    Men who are laboring, modestly dumb,
    Faithfully doing the work that is hard

    Some day, men of the toiling thumb,
    Men of the modest, invincible worth,
    Some day your high reward will come
    From the Hand of the Lord of heaven and earth!

  6. Morning

    by Jane Taylor

    The lark is up to meet the sun,
    The bee is on the wing,
    The ant her labor has begun,
    The woods with music ring.

    Shall birds and bees and ants be wise,
    While I my moments waste?
    Oh, let me with the morning rise,
    And to my duties haste.

    Why should I sleep till beams of morn
    Their light and glory shed?
    Immortal beings were not born
    To waste their time in bed.

  7. A Good Sleep

    But fill the day with labor, Ned.
    And work with all your might,
    For that will fill the hardest bed
    With softest down, at night.

    – Anonymous
    A Good Sleep
    by Anonymous

    You do not need a bed of down
    To give you sleep at night.
    A counterpane of pink and brown
    And pillow soft and white

    You do not need a pretty room
    All dressed in dainty blue.
    Where soundest slumber-health may come,
    With pleasant dreams, to you.

    But fill the day with labor, Ned.
    And work with all your might,
    For that will fill the hardest bed
    With softest down, at night.

    And if you want a counterpane
    With many colors gay.
    Not only work with might and main,
    But—add a bit of play!

  8. The Song of the Bee

    Buzz! buzz! buzz!
    From morning's first light
    Till the coming of night,
    He's singing and toiling
    The summer day through.
    Oh! we may get weary,
    And think work is dreary;
    'Tis harder by far
    To have nothing to do.

    – Marian Douglas
    The Song of the Bee
    by Marian Douglas

    Buzz! buzz! buzz!
    This is the song of the bee.
    His legs are of yellow;
    A jolly, good fellow,
    And yet a great worker is he.

    In days that are sunny
    He's getting his honey;
    In days that are cloudy
    He's making his wax:
    On pinks and on lilies,
    And gay daffodillies,
    And columbine blossoms,
    He levies a tax!

    Buzz! buzz! buzz!
    The sweet-smelling clover,
    He, humming, hangs over;
    The scent of the roses
    Makes fragrant his wings:
    He never gets lazy;
    From thistle and daisy,
    And weeds of the meadow,
    Some treasure he brings.

    Buzz! buzz! buzz!
    From morning's first light
    Till the coming of night,
    He's singing and toiling
    The summer day through.
    Oh! we may get weary,
    And think work is dreary;
    'Tis harder by far
    To have nothing to do.

  9. The Blacksmith

    by Anonymous

    Clink, clink, clinkerty clink!
    We begin to hammer at morning's blink,
    And hammer away
    Till the busy day,
    Like us, aweary, to rest shall sink.

    Clink, clink, clinkerty clink!
    From labor and care we never will shrink;
    But our fires we'll blow
    Till our forges glow
    With light intense, while our eyelids wink.

    Clink, clink, clinkerty clink;
    The chain we'll forge with many a link.
    We'll work each form
    While the iron is warm,
    With strokes as fast as we can think.

    Clink, clink, clinkerty clink!
    Our faces may be as black as ink,
    But our hearts are true
    As man ever knew,
    And kindly of all we shall ever think.

  10. On the bleakness of my lot

    Soil of flint if steadfast tilled
    Will reward the hand;

    – Emily Dickinson
    On the bleakness of my lot
    by Emily Dickinson

    On the bleakness of my lot
    Bloom I strove to raise.
    Late, my acre of a rock
    Yielded grape and maize.

    Soil of flint if steadfast tilled
    Will reward the hand;
    Seed of palm by Lybian sun
    Fructified in sand.

  11. Work

    And man is never half so blest
    As when the busy day is spent
    So as to make his evening rest
    A holiday of glad content.

    – Eliza Cook
    Work
    by Eliza Cook

    Work, work, my boy, be not afraid;
    Look labor boldly in the face;
    Take up the hammer or the spade,
    And blush not for your humble place.

    There's glory in the shuttle's song;
    There's triumph in the anvil's stroke;
    There's merit in the brave and strong
    Who dig the mine or fell the oak.

    The wind disturbs the sleeping lake,
    And bids it ripple pure and fresh;
    It moves the green boughs till they make
    Grand music in their leafy mesh.

    And so the active breath of life
    Should stir our dull and sluggard wills;
    For are we not created rife
    With health, that stagnant torpor kills?

    I doubt if he who lolls his head
    Where idleness and plenty meet,
    Enjoys his pillow or his bread
    As those who earn the meals they eat.

    And man is never half so blest
    As when the busy day is spent
    So as to make his evening rest
    A holiday of glad content.

  12. Little by Little

    And still this rule in my mind shall dwell,
    Whatever I do, I will do it well...
    And do you not think that this simple plan
    Made him a wise and useful man?

    – Anonymous
    Little by Little
    by Anonymous

    “Little by little,” an acorn said,
    As it slowly sank in its mossy bed,
    “I am improving every day,
    Hidden deep in the earth away.”

    Little by little, each day it grew;
    Little by little, it sipped the dew;
    Downward it sent out a thread-like root;
    Up in the air sprung a tiny shoot.

    Day after day, and year after year,
    Little by little the leaves appear;
    And the slender branches spread far and wide,
    Till the mighty oak is the forest’s pride.

    Far down in the depths of the dark blue sea,
    An insect train work ceaselessly.
    Grain by grain, they are building well,
    Each one alone in its little cell.

    Moment by moment, and day by day,
    Never stopping to rest or to play,
    Rocks upon rocks, they are rearing high,
    Till the top looks out on the sunny sky.

    The gentle wind and the balmy air,
    Little by little, bring verdure there;
    Till the summer sunbeams gayly smile
    On the buds and the flowers of the coral isle.

    “Little by little,” said a thoughtful boy,
    “Moment by moment, I’ll well employ,
    Learning a little every day,
    And not spending all my time in play.
    And still this rule in my mind shall dwell,
    Whatever I do, I will do it well.

    “Little by little, I’ll learn to know
    The treasured wisdom of long ago;
    And one of these days, perhaps, we’ll see
    That the world will be the better for me.”
    And do you not think that this simple plan
    Made him a wise and useful man?

  13. The Seedling

    Little folks, be like the seedling,
    Always do the best you can;
    Every child must share life's labor
    Just as well as every man.

    – Laurence Dunbar
    The Seedling
    by Laurence Dunbar

    As a quiet little seedling
    Lay within its darksome bed,
    To itself it fell a-talking,
    And this is what it said:

    "I am not so very robust,
    But I'll do the best I can;"
    And the seedling from that moment
    Its work of life began.

    So it pushed a little leaflet
    Up into the light of day,
    To examine the surroundings
    And show the rest the way.

    The leaflet liked the prospect,
    So it called its brother, Stem;
    Then two other leaflets heard it,
    And quickly followed them.

    To be sure, the haste and hurry
    Made the seedling sweat and pant;
    But almost before it knew it
    It found itself a plant.

    The sunshine poured upon it,
    And the clouds they gave a shower;
    And the little plant kept growing
    Till it found itself a flower.

    Little folks, be like the seedling,
    Always do the best you can;
    Every child must share life's labor
    Just as well as every man.

    And the sun and showers will help you
    Through the lonesome, struggling hours,
    Till you raise to light and beauty
    Virtue's fair, unfading flowers.

  14. Joy and Labor

    by William Francis Barnard

    The joy of labor, and the joy of song,
    Delight of pleasure, and delight of rest,
    And happy peace, the heart's full welcome guest,
    All these are one, like friends in gladsome throng.
    Nay, toiling brain and hands with sinews strong,
    Hot sweating brows, and heavy heaving breast,
    'Tis unto work that nature yields her best;
    Why do you, then, cry out upon a wrong?

    An answer comes from countless sons of toil,
    Borne as on mighty winds from everywhere,
    "Yes, work were sweet, if we might glean the soil,
    And own the things we fashion with our care;
    But masters take our substance for their spoil;
    We are but slaves; the curse of work lies there!"

  15. Ease

    by Raymond Garfield Dandridge

    Oh! foolish one in quest of ease,
    Do you not know that ease on earth, for men,
    Is like unto the "Pot of Gold"
    upon the rainbow's end;
    A wily "will-o'-the-wisp" who
    flees, and flees, and flees,
    Not huriedly, but just a step
    beyond your grasp—is ease?

  16. A Sailor Ballad

    And still this rule in my mind shall dwell,
    Whatever I do, I will do it well...
    And do you not think that this simple plan
    Made him a wise and useful man?

    – Ruby Archer
    A Sailor Ballad
    by Ruby Archer

    Oh, tie your knot with a tug and twist,
    And never a careless bend,
    Look out for strands that you may have missed,
    And never leave a loose end.

    In law or love will the ruling hold:
    If trouble away you'd fend,
    Be careful ever, and often bold,
    But never leave a loose end.

    The lag or slip of a rope will give
    A loop that you can't defend.
    You'll hate yourself as long as you live—
    Oh, never leave a loose end!

    Some other fellow as quick as thought
    Will do what you cannot mend—
    Untie your luck or your true-love knot,—
    So never leave a loose end.

  17. The Grasshopper and the Ant

    by Hannah Flagg Gould

    'Ant, look at me!' a young Grasshopper said,
    As nimbly he sprang from his green, summer bed,
    'See how I'm going to skip over your head,
    And could o'er a thousand like you!
    Ant, by your motion alone, I should judge
    That Nature ordained you a slave and a drudge,
    For ever and ever to keep on the trudge,
    And always find something to do.

    'Oh! there is nothing like having our day,
    Taking our pleasure and ease while we may,
    Bathing ourselves in the bright, mellow ray
    That comes from the warm, golden sun!
    While I am up in the light and the air,
    You, a sad picture of labor and care!
    Still have some hard, heavy burden to bear,
    And work that you never get done.

    'I have an exercise healthful, and good,
    For timing the nerves and digesting the food—
    Graceful gymnastics for stirring the blood
    Without the gross purpose of use.
    Ant, let me tell you 't is not a la mode,
    To plod like a pilgrim and carry a load,
    Perverting the limbs that for grace were bestowed,
    By such a plebeian abuse.

    'While the whole world with provisions is filled,
    Who would keep toiling and toiling to build
    And lay in a store for himself, till he 's killed
    With work that another might do?
    Come! drop your budget and just give a spring.
    Jump on a grass-blade and balance and swing.
    Soon you'll be light as a gnat on the wing,
    Gay as a grasshopper, too!'

    Ant trudged along while the grasshopper sung,
    Minding her business and holding her tongue,
    Until she got home her own people among;
    But these were her thoughts on the road.
    'What will become of that poor, idle one
    When the light sports of the summer are done?
    And, where is the covert to which he may run
    To find a safe winter abode?

    'Oh! if I only could tell him how sweet
    Toil makes my rest and the morsel I eat,
    While hope gives a spur to my little black feet,
    He'd never pity my lot!
    He'd never ask me my burden to drop
    To join in his folly—to spring, and to hop;
    And thus make the ant and her labor to stop,
    When time, I am certain, would not.

    'When the cold frost all the herbage has nipped,
    When the bare branches with ice-drops are tipped,
    Where will the grasshopper then be, that skipped,
    So careless and lightly to-day?
    Frozen to-death! 'a sad picture' indeed,
    Of reckless indulgence and what must succeed,
    That all his gymnastics ca 'nt shelter or feed,
    Or quicken his pulse into play.

    'I must prepare for a winter to come.
    I shall be glad of a home and a crumb,
    When my frail form out of doors would be numb,
    And I in the snow-storm should die.
    Summer is lovely, but soon will be past.
    Summer has plenty not always to last.
    Summer's the time for the ant to make fast
    Her stores for a future supply!'

  18. Be Strong

    Be strong!
    We are not here to play, to dream, to drift,
    We have hard work to do, and loads to lift.
    Shun not the struggle; face it. 'Tis God's gift.

    – Maltbie Davenport Babcock
    Be Strong
    by Maltbie Davenport Babcock

    Be strong!
    We are not here to play, to dream, to drift,
    We have hard work to do, and loads to lift.
    Shun not the struggle; face it. 'Tis God's gift.

    Be strong!
    Say not the days are evil, — Who's to blame?
    And fold not the hands and acquiesce, — O shame!
    Stand up, speak out, and bravely, in God's name.

    Be strong!
    It matters not how deep entrenched the wrong,
    How hard the battle goes, the day, how long.
    Faint not, fight on! To-morrow comes the song.

    Finally, my brethren, be strong in the Lord, and in the power of his might.

    – Ephesians 6:10
    The Bible, KJV
  19. "How Doth the Little Busy Bee"

    by Isaac Watts

    How doth the little busy bee
    Improve each shining hour,
    And gather honey all the day
    From every opening flower!

    How skilfully she builds her cell!
    How neat she spreads the wax!
    And labors hard to storeit well
    With the sweet food she makes.

    In works of labor or of skill,
    I would be busy too;
    For Satan finds some mischief still
    For idle hands to do.

    In books, or work, or healthful play,
    Let my first years be passed,
    That I may give for every day
    Some good account at last.

  20. The Butterfly and the Bee

    by William Lisle Bowles

    Methought I heard a butterfly
    Say to a laboring bee;
    "Thou hast no colors of the sky
    On painted wings like me."

    "Poor child of vanity! those dyes,
    And colors bright and rare,"
    With mild reproof, the bee replies,
    "Are all beneath my care."

    "Content I toil from morn till eve,
    And, scorning idleness,
    To tribes of gaudy sloth I leave
    The vanity of dress."

  21. The Cheery Chewink

    A worker's challenge bold and free,
    The alto call of industry...
    He shouts his slogan clear and strong,
    And glorifies his work with song.

    - Amos R. Wells
    The Cheery Chewink
    by Amos Russel Wells

    "Chewink! Chewink!" a sprightly sound
    Ringing across the bushy ground,
    A worker's challenge bold and free,
    The alto call of industry.

    Deep in the underbrush is heard
    The scratching of the busy bird;
    Behold, with energetic heaves,
    Both feet at once, he flings the leaves.

    But ever, pausing on the brink
    Of new descent—Chewink! Chewink!—
    He shouts his slogan clear and strong,
    And glorifies his work with song.

    No dreary drudgery for him,
    A very dandy happy and trim,
    With black and white and ruddy brown,
    The smartest gentleman in town!

    Ah, brother toilers, bent and worn
    Beneath your burdens all forlorn,
    Your work's a martyrdom, you think?
    Just hear that bird: "Chewink! Chewink!"

  22. The Swedish Wife

    by Henrietta Gould Rowe. In the State House at Augusta, Me., is a bunch of cedar shingles made by a Swedish woman the wife of one of the earliest settlers of New Sweden, who, with her husband sick and a family of little ones dependent upon her, made with her own hands these shingles, and carried them eight miles upon her back to the town of Caribou, where she exchanged them for provisions for her family.

    The morning sun shines bright and clear,
    Clear and cold, for winter is near,—
    Winter, the chill and dread:
    And the fire burns bright in the exile's home,
    With fagot of fir from the mountain's dome,
    While the children clamor for bread.

    Against the wall stands the idle wheel,
    Unfinished the thread upon the spindle and reel,
    The empty cards are crost;
    But nigh to the hearthstone sits the wife,
    With cleaver and mallet,—so brave and so blithe,
    She fears not famine or frost.

    Fair and soft are her braided locks,
    And the light in her blue eye merrily mocks
    The shadow of want and fear,
    As deftly, with fingers supple and strong,
    She draws the glittering shave along,
    O'er the slab of cedar near.

    Neatly and close are the shingles laid,
    Bound in a bunch,—then, undismayed,
    The Swedish wife uprose:
    "Be patient, my darlings," she blithely said,
    "I go to the town, and you shall have bread,
    Ere the day has reached its close."

    Eight miles she trudged—'twas a weary way;
    The road was rough, the sky grew gray
    With the snow that sifted down;
    Bent were her shoulders beneath their load,
    But high was her heart, for love was the goad
    That urged her on to the town.

    Ere the sun went down was her promise kept,
    The little ones feasted before they slept;
    While the father, sick in bed,
    Prayed softly, with tears and murmurs low,
    That his household darlings might never know
    A lack of their daily bread.

  23. The Old Flax-Wheel

    by Virgil Viraldini Twitchell

    Grandma sat there in her old arm-chair, humming her favorite tune,
    Her head was white but her face as bright as a leafless rose in June;
    She tapped her heel as she turned her reel, in a sing-song way so queer,
    I can hear her yet, and I'll never forget, though I live a hundred year,
    The distaff's rebound as it turned around, and grandma's cry, "Take care!"
    'Twas always my fate, I found too late, the "old thing" pulling my hair.

    She'd sit upright from morn till night, nor think it was a tax,
    With toe and heel she'd turn the wheel and finger the glossy flax;
    The old black cat asleep on the mat, the clock so tall and queer
    Its tick, tick, tick, and the wheels' click, click, were musical sounds to hear;
    The fiery blaze from the fire-place made shadows on the wall
    Of revolving reel and spinning wheel, with grandma over all.

  24. Firewood

    by Raymond Holden

    The glittering crescent of my blade
    Is stuck with juices of the tree:
    There is the wound which I have made,
    There are the dark boughs over me.
    I swing the axe. The cones are shaken
    And the shuddering tree begins to come
    With ripping shrieks which might awaken
    The gorged fox in his hidden home.
    My blood is brightened and my eyes
    Are blurred with flashes of a fire
    That leaps like wind and only dies
    When I have cut what I require.
    The fresh chips falling in the snow
    Have something for the sunny wind
    Which rose a little while ago
    In the old spruce forest I have thinned,
    And I whose cheeks can feel it blow
    Rest aching hands upon my axe
    And have a desperate wish to know
    What kind of flame my chimney lacks. . . .
    Why covet skeletons for food
    To keep a man from stiffening
    With cold not made to chill the blood
    Of fox's foot or bird's wing?

  25. The Shoeing Forge

    by J. R. Eastwood

    A Stone's throw from the market town,
    Close on the lane that wanders down
    Between tall trees and hedgerows green,
    The famous shoeing forge is seen;
    Open it stands upon the road,
    That day and night is overflowed
    By ruddy light that leaps and falls
    Along the rafters and the walls.

    And often, halting on his way,
    The idler from the town will stay
    To hear the sharp, clear, ringing sound,
    And watch the red sparks raining round,
    And the bright fiery metal glow,
    While the strong smith, with blow on blow,
    Hammers it into shape—a sight
    To rouse his wonder and delight.

    Now in the smouldering fire once more
    The bar is thrust; the bellows roar,
    And fan the flame to fiercer light,
    Until the metal waxes white;
    Then, on the anvil placed again,
    Ding-dong, the strokes descend amain;
    Strong is the arm, the vision true,
    Of him who shapes the iron shoe.

    For thee, O reader, is the thought
    That great success in life is wrought
    Not by the idler as he stands
    With wondering looks and empty hands,
    But by the toiler who can take
    Each adverse circumstance and make
    It bend beneath the force and fire
    Of firm resolve and high desire!

  26. Give Me An Ax

    by Douglas Malloch

    'Member when I was a kid workin' in the old wood lot
    Where we used to chop an' cut, where our winter's warmth we got—
    Pa on one end of a saw, me upon the other end,
    'Till I thought my body'd break like we made the cross-cut bend.
    Then, just to encourage me, make my bosom swell with pride,
    Pa would say, "If you can't pull, don't git on the saw an' ride."
    Sometimes, though, the saw would stick, though we nearly broke our backs;
    Then pa'd yell, "All hands stand by—look out fer heads—give me an ax!"

    That's some twenty years ago; things have changed a heap since then—
    Pa sleeps where the wood lot was, I toil here fer city men.
    Some I marvel at their ways, some I marvel, some I'm mad;
    Diff'rent sort of chaps are they from my dear, old, cranky dad—
    Nothin' here to breathe but smoke, nothin' here to hear but noise;
    Wonder thet I sometimes long fer my childhood pains an' joys?
    An' I'd like to shut my eyes, shut out reason, shut out facts—
    Hear again, "All hands stand by—look out fer heads—give me an ax!"

    City folks ain't country folks, city ways ain't country ways—
    More I come to think these things as I near my final days.
    When I read of boodlers, read of those who rob the poor,
    When I see the villain's hand with its touch defile the pure;
    When I see the rottenness, see the slowness of reform,
    See how high a wall it is decency an' right must storm,
    Then I know what ails it all, know jest what it is it lacks—
    Men like pa of old to yell: "Look out fer heads—give me an ax!"

  27. The Lumbermen

    by John Greenleaf Whittier

    Wildly round our woodland quarters
    Sad-voiced Autumn grieves;
    Thickly down these swelling waters
    Float his fallen leaves.
    Through the tall and naked timber,
    Column-like and old,
    Gleam the sunsets of November
    From their skies of gold.

    O'er us, to the southland heading,
    Screams the gray wild-goose;
    On the night-frost sounds the treading
    Of the brindled moose.
    Noiseless creeping, while we're sleeping,
    Frost his task-work plies;
    Soon, his icy bridges heaping,
    Shall our log-piles rise.

    When, with sounds of smothered thunder,
    On some night of rain,
    Lake and river break asunder
    Winter's weakened chain,
    Down the wild March flood shall bear them
    To the saw-mill's wheel,
    Or where Steam, the slave, shall tear them
    With his teeth of steel.

    Be it starlight, be it moonlight,
    In these vales below,
    When the earliest beams of sunlight
    Streak the mountain's snow,
    Crisps the hoar-frost, keen and early,
    To our hurrying feet,
    And the forest echoes clearly
    All our blows repeat.

    Where the crystal Ambijejis
    Stretches broad and clear,
    And Millnoket's pine-black ridges
    Hide the browsing deer:
    Where, through lakes and wide morasses,
    Or through rocky walls,
    Swift and strong, Penobscot passes
    White with foamy falls;

    Where, through clouds, are glimpses given
    Of Katahdin's sides,—
    Rock and forest piled to heaven,
    Torn and ploughed by slides!
    Far below, the Indian trapping,
    In the sunshine warm;
    Far above, the snow-cloud wrapping
    Half the peak in storm!

    Where are mossy carpets better
    Than the Persian weaves,
    And than Eastern perfumes sweeter
    Seem the fading leaves;
    And a music wild and solemn,
    From the pine-tree's height,
    Rolls its vast and sea-like volume
    On the wind of night;

    Make we here our camp of winter;
    And, through sleet and snow,
    Pitchy knot and beechen splinter
    On our hearth shall glow.
    Here, with mirth to lighten duty,
    We shall lack alone
    Woman's smile and girlhood's beauty,
    Childhood's lisping tone.

    But their hearth is brighter burning
    For our toil to-day;
    And the welcome of returning
    Shall our loss repay,
    When, like seamen from the waters,
    From the woods we come,
    Greeting sisters, wives, and daughters,
    Angels of our home!

    Not for us the measured ringing
    From the village spire,
    Not for us the Sabbath singing
    Of the sweet-voiced choir:
    Ours the old, majestic temple,
    Where God's brightness shines
    Down the dome so grand and ample,
    Propped by lofty pines!

    Through each branch-enwoven skylight,
    Speaks He in the breeze,
    As of old beneath the twilight
    Of lost Eden's trees!
    For His ear, the inward feeling
    Needs no outward tongue;
    He can see the spirit kneeling
    While the axe is swung.

    Heeding truth alone, and turning
    From the false and dim,
    Lamp of toil or altar burning
    Are alike to Him.
    Strike, then, comrades!—Trade is waiting
    On our rugged toil;
    Far ships waiting for the freighting
    Of our woodland spoil!

    Ships, whose traffic links these highlands,
    Bleak and cold, of ours,
    With the citron-planted islands
    Of a clime of flowers;
    To our frosts the tribute bringing
    Of eternal heats;
    In our lap of winter flinging
    Tropic fruits and sweets.

    Cheerly, on the axe of labor,
    Let the sunbeams dance,
    Better than the flash of sabre
    Or the gleam of lance!
    Strike!—With every blow is given
    Freer sun and sky,
    And the long-hid earth to heaven
    Looks, with wondering eye!

    Loud behind us grow the murmurs
    Of the age to come;
    Clang of smiths, and tread of farmers,
    Bearing harvest home!
    Here her virgin lap with treasures
    Shall the green earth fill;
    Waving wheat and golden maize-ears
    Crown each beechen hill.

    Keep who will the city's alleys,
    Take the smooth-shorn plain,—
    Give to us the cedarn valleys,
    Rocks and hills of Maine!
    In our North-land, wild and woody,
    Let us still have part;
    Rugged nurse and mother sturdy,
    Hold us to thy heart!

    O, our free hearts beat the warmer
    For thy breath of snow;
    And our tread is all the firmer
    For thy rocks below.
    Freedom, hand in hand with Labor,
    Walketh strong and brave;
    On the forehead of his neighbor
    No man writeth Slave!

    Lo, the day breaks! old Katahdin's
    Pine-trees show its fires,
    While from these dim forest gardens
    Rise their blackened spires.
    Up, my comrades! up and doing!
    Manhood's rugged play
    Still renewing, bravely hewing
    Through the world our way!

  28. Song of the Woodchopper

    by Eugene J. Hall

    Out in the bleak, cold woods he stands,
    Swinging his axe with sturdy hands;
    Sharply the blue-jays near him call,
    Softly the snow-flakes round him fall;
    Gayly he sings,
    As his axe he swings,
    "What care I for the ice or snow,—
    Here away, there away, down you go."

    Loud the winds through the tree-tops sigh;
    Far the chips from his keen axe fly;
    Fiercely the tree-trunks, gray and brown,
    Totter, sway, and come tumbling down.
    Gayly he sings,
    As his axe he swings,
    "What care I for the ice or snow,—
    Here away, there away, down you go.

    "There's time to work and time to sleep;
    There's time to laugh and time to weep;
    The chips must fly, the trees must fall
    To feed the fire that warms us all."
    Gayly he sings,
    As his axe he swings,
    "What care I for the ice or snow,—
    Here away, there away, down you go."

  29. The Way to Succeed

    by Peter Burn

    Ready and steady and willing to do,
    Taking the duty that opens to view,
    Turning not back, once your hand's to the plough,
    That is the way to succeed.
    Rise to the need! Do and succeed!
    Noble the worker if noble his deed;
    Holding to purpose where evils impede,
    That is the way to succeed.

    Taking, whilst others are waiting the tide,
    Setting disasters and failures aside,
    Braving the dangers which others have shied,
    That is the way to succeed.
    Rise to the need! etc.

    Living the maxims in youth we have read:
    Up with the lark, and as early to bed;
    Hitting the nail that we strike on the head—
    That is the way to succeed.
    Rise to the need! etc.

    Acting whilst other men grumble and plot;
    Making the best that we can of our lot;
    Striking the iron-bar when it is hot—
    That is the way to succeed.
    Rise to the need! etc.

    Upward and onward! unhinder'd in flight,
    Donned with true armour life's battle to fight,
    Sounding the battle-cry—God and the Right!
    That is the way to succeed.
    Rise to the need! etc.

Related Poems

Follow Us On: