Emily Dickinson's Poem

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 vanquished Flame's conditions,

It quivers from the Forge

Without a color but the light

Of unanointed Blaze.

Least village has its Blacksmith

Whose Anvil's evil ring

Stands symbol of the finer Forge

That soundless tugs - within -

Refining these impatient Ores

With Hammer, and with Blaze

Until the Designated Light

Repudiate the Forge -