Sunday Poetry - Emily Dickinson

Back with Emily Dickinson again this week. Another spectacular poem, with its almost metaphysical imagery of the blacksmith & the forge.

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.