Images of Brugge ~ wrought iron

We have returned from our long weekend in Brugge and I wanted to share some images of the city with you this week. To me, this is the most beautiful city in Europe! I feel connected to this ancient city and love its history which pours from every street. I hope you will enjoy some of my images of the city.

Images of the Lace Days are found on my other blog.


This first set of photos shows the beauty of wrought iron that is apparent all over. From lampposts to city wells to garden gates. Enjoy the images along with the words of Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.....

The Village Blacksmith

Under a spreading chestnut tree

The village smithy stands;

The Smith, a mighty man is he,

With large and sinewy hands;

And the muscles of his brawny arms

Are strong as iron bands.

His hair is crisp, and black, and long,

His face is like the tan;

His brow is wet with honest sweat,

He earns whate'er he can

And looks the whole world in the face

For he owes not any man.

Week in, week out, from morn till night,

You can hear his bellows blow;

You can hear him swing his heavy sledge,

With measured beat and slow,

Like a sexton ringing the village bell,

When the evening sun is low.

And children coming home from school

Look in at the open door;

They love to see the flaming furge,

And hear the bellows roar,

And catch the burning sparks that fly

Like chaff from a threshing floor.

He goes on Sunday to the church

and sits among his boys;

He hears the parson pray and preach.

He hears his daughter's voice

singing in the village choir,

And it makes his heart rejoice.

It sounds to him like her mother's voice,

Singing in Paradise!

He needs must think of her once more,

How in the grave she lies;

And with his hard, rough hand he wipes

A tear out of his eyes.

Toiling, rejoicing,-sorrowing,

Onward through life he goes;

Each morning sees some task begin,

Each evening sees it close;

Something attempted, something done,

Has earned a night's repose.

Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend

For the lesson thou hast taught!

Thus at the flaming forge of life

Our fortunes must be wrought;

Thus on its sounding anvil shaped

Each burning deed and thought!