ALL the noises of the village
   With the evening have grown still,
Save the tinkling and the clinking
   In the smithy on the hill.
As I sit before the fire-light,
   In a dreamy sort of doze,
Hearing, yet not listening to it,
   The rhythm of the blows
On the distant anvil ringing
   Throbs and murmurs in my ears,
And I’m borne away in spirit
   O’er the intervening years;
And I stand before a smithy,
   In the goodly coming time,
And I weave there in the spirit