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.