by Emily Dickinson
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American Literature – American Poetry – Emily Dickinson
< < < The way I read a letter ‘s this
The Wife > > >
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.
< < < The way I read a letter ‘s this
The Wife > > >
American Literature – American Poetry – Emily Dickinson
Copyright holders – Public Domain
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