The butcher-boy puts off his killing-clothes, or sharpens his knife at the stall in the market, I loiter enjoying his repartee and his shuffle and break-down.
Blacksmiths with grimed and hairy chests environ the anvil,
- Each has his main-sledge,
- they are all out,
- there is a great heat in the fire.
From the cinder-strew’d threshold I follow their movements,
- The lithe sheer of their waists plays even with their massive arms,
- Overhand the hammers swing,
- overhand so slow,
- overhand so sure,
They do not hasten, each man hits in his place.