Classic Poem

Pain is a blacksmith,
Hard is his hammer;
With flying flames
His hearth is hot;
A straining storm
Of forces ferocious
Blows his bellows.
He hammers hearts
And tinkers them,
With blows tremendous,
Till hard they hold. —
Well, well forges Pain. —
No storm destroys,
No frost consumes,
No rust corrodes,
What pain has forged.