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Poemsby Emily Dickinson

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.