alfred-noyes

Stand like a beaten anvil, when thy dreamIs laid upon thee, golden from the fire.Flinch not, though heavily through that furnace-gleamThe black forge-hammers fall on thy desire.Demoniac giants round thee seem to loom.'Tis but the world-smiths heaving to and fro.Stand like a beaten anvil. Take the doomTheir ponderous weapons deal thee, blow on blow.Needful to truth as dew-fall to the flowerIs this wild wrath and this implacable scorn.For every pang, new beauty, and new power,Burning blood-red shall on thy heart be born.Stand like a beaten anvil. Let earth's wrongBeat on that iron and ring back in song.