Don’t mind my doubtful face, a few choice blows will right it— tongs but a quarter-turn from the forge. Striker at the hardy hole, the smith minds his horn. Red end—sudden drop— flattened, my lips at the upsetting plate, that I might approach the abyss. Tongue plunged in a throat of steam, so I speak in the voice of the crow. Hammers, list a bit— would I were become anvil, hit in the service of shaping a third thing.