The White Heat

DARE you see a soul at the white heat?

      Then crouch within the door.

Red is the fire's common tint;

      But when the vivid ore

Has sated flame's conditions,

      Its quivering substance plays

Without a color but the light

      Of unanointed blaze.

Least village boasts its blacksmith,

      Whose anvil's even din

Stands symbol for the finer forge

      That soundless tugs within,

Refining these impatient ores

      With hammer and with blaze,

Until the designated light

      Repudiate the forge.