An Elementary School Memory
I think I was in sixth grade at the time.22 total reviews
Comment from jessizero
This was impressive. I never managed to memorize many poems, and you did such a great job at such a young age! I am sure your parents were proud. Thank you for sharing, and best wishes to you.
This rating does not count towards story rating or author rank.
The highest and the lowest rating are not included in calculations.
reply by the author on 15-Mar-2024
  |
This was impressive. I never managed to memorize many poems, and you did such a great job at such a young age! I am sure your parents were proud. Thank you for sharing, and best wishes to you.
This rating does not count towards story rating or author rank.
The highest and the lowest rating are not included in calculations.
Comment Written 15-Mar-2024
reply by the author on 15-Mar-2024
-
Thank you so much for your very fine review. I appreciate it very
Comment from karenina
Okay, so my long-term memory isn't what it once was and I had to look up the poem that I once knew:
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The Village Blacksmith
Under a spreading chestnut-tree
â? 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.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
My dear woman, that is a huge achievement for a full-grown adult, much less a third grader!
And, wow ~ your teacher selected a poem of quite heavy themes for children so young!
(My grandson is in third grade and wouldn't have a chance of understanding this, or memorizing it!)
If your parents didn't celebrate your success, they should have!
Thanks for sharing...
You were a child prodigy!
:)
Karenina
This rating does not count towards story rating or author rank.
The highest and the lowest rating are not included in calculations.
reply by the author on 15-Mar-2024
|
Okay, so my long-term memory isn't what it once was and I had to look up the poem that I once knew:
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The Village Blacksmith
Under a spreading chestnut-tree
â? 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.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
My dear woman, that is a huge achievement for a full-grown adult, much less a third grader!
And, wow ~ your teacher selected a poem of quite heavy themes for children so young!
(My grandson is in third grade and wouldn't have a chance of understanding this, or memorizing it!)
If your parents didn't celebrate your success, they should have!
Thanks for sharing...
You were a child prodigy!
:)
Karenina
This rating does not count towards story rating or author rank.
The highest and the lowest rating are not included in calculations.
Comment Written 15-Mar-2024
reply by the author on 15-Mar-2024
-
Thank you so much for your fine review and also, thank you for copying the poem and putting it up in your your review for me.
