Some must follow and some command, through all are made oclay.
The secret anniversaries of the heart.
A torn jacket is soon mended; but hard words bruise the heart of a child.
The air is full of farewells to the dying. And mournings for the dead.
So disasters come not singly; But as if they watched and waited, Scanning one another's motions, When the first descends, the others Follow, follow, gathering flock-wiseRound their victim, sick and wounded, First a shadow, then a sorrow, Till the air is dark with anguish.
Under a spreading chestnut-tree 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.