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Poem by Robert Laurence Binyon


The Anvil


Burned from the oreТs rejected dross,
The iron whitens in the heat.
With plangent strokes of pain and loss
The hammers on the iron beat.
Searched by the fire, through death and dole
We feel the iron in our soul.

O dreadful Forge! if torn and bruised
The heart, more urgent comes our cry
Not to be spared but to be used,
Brain, sinew, and spirit, before we die.
Beat out the iron, edge it keen,
And shape us to the end we mean. 



Robert Laurence Binyon


Robert Laurence Binyon's other poems:
  1. In Memory of George Calderon
  2. In the High Leaves of a Walnut
  3. Edith Cavell
  4. The Zeppelin
  5. Ypres


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