Part One: Life
 
                  XXXIII
 
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.

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