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63 The butcher-boy puts off
his killing clothes, or
sharpens his
knife at the stall in the market;
I loiter, enjoying his repartee and his shuffle and
break-down.
64 Blacksmiths with grimed
and hairy chests environ
the anvil;
Each has his main-sledge — they are all out —
(there is a
great heat in the fire.)
65 From the cinder-strew'd
threshold I follow their
movements;
The lithe sheer of their waists plays even with their
massive arms;
Overhand the hammers swing — overhand so slow —
overhand so
sure:
They do not hasten — each man hits in his place.
