VII
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 playsWithout a color but the lightOf unanointed blaze.
Least village boasts its blacksmith,Whose anvil’s even dinStands symbol for the finer forgeThat soundless tugs within,
Refining these impatient oresWith hammer and with blaze,Until the designated lightRepudiate the forge.