The White Heat. By Emily Dickinson

    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.