The Internet Poetry Archive

The White Heat

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 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 even ring
Stands symbol for the finer Forge
That soundless tugs -- within --
Re[f]ining these impatient Ores
With Hammer, and with Blaze
Untile the Designated Light
Repudiate the Forge.

Poetry.com.au


<   Back   |    Poetry Archive Home   |    More from this Author   >

This site and all contents (except individual poetic works) are copyright 2000-2024 Curiosity Cave Pty Ltd.
All rights reserved. Read our privacy policy here.