God is at the anvil, beating out the sun;
Where the molten metal spills,
At His forge among the hills
He has hammered out the glory of a day that’s done.
God is at the anvil, welding golden bars;
In the scarlet-streaming flame
He is fashioning a frame
For the shimmering silver beauty of the evening stars.
I was in the 7th and 8th grade when I really fell in love with poetry. One thing that triggered this was a research paper I wrote on American literature in the 7th grade, and then the A Beka reader, Themes in Literature, that we used in the 8th grade. I loved that reader. The stories were fascinating and the poetry was outstanding, with lots of imagery.
I discovered the above poem, “God is at the Anvil”, in the 8th grade, and I remember savoring the way the words formed the image of a sunset in my mind. Later, it was in another reader (I love old readers) that I found another of Lew Sarett’s poems called “Wolf Cry”, but it wasn’t until tonight actually that I realized that both poems were written by the same author. I love the way that Lew Sarett uses a minimum of words to paint his pictures. I don’t know about you, but when I read “Wolf Cry”, I am there in an Arctic forest under a full moon, aching with the loneliness of the wild and thrilling with adventure.
The Arctic moon hangs overhead;
The wide white silence lies below.
A starveling pine stands lone and gaunt,
Black-penciled on the snow.
Weird as the moan of sobbing winds,
A lone long call floats up from the trail;
And the naked soul of the frozen North
Trembles in that wail.