Poem by John Masefield (1878-1967)

Stand like a beaten anvil,

When thy dream is laid upon thee,

Golden from the fire.

Flinch not, through that furnace gleam,

Demoniac giants round thee seem to loom,

' Tis but the wordsmith's heaving to and fro,

Stand like a beaten anvil.

Take thy doom

Their ponderous weapons deal thee blow on blow

Needful to truth, 

As dew fall from the flower,

Is this wild wrath           impeccable scorn?

For each new         , new beauty and new power to be born,

Stand like a beaten anvil

Let Earth wrongs beat on that anvil,

And ring back Song.

  

( July 14, 2016 )

Note to the poet: I apologize for blanks left as I was transcribing the poem. Simply, I could not read my own handwriting... I'll be right back to fix it. Thanks :)