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.