365 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— Refining these impatient Ores With Hammer, and with Blaze Until the Designated Light Repudiate the Forge—