Poem 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 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.




