POEMS OF EMILY DICKINSON
And sweetest in the gale is heard;And sore must be the stormThat could abash the little birdThat kept so many warm.
I’ve heard it in the chillest land,And on the strangest sea;Yet, never, in extremity.It asked a crumb of me.
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 playsWithout a color but the light Of unanointed blaze.
Least village boasts its blacksmith, Whose anvil’s even dinStands 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.
[20]
