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 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 --
     Re[f]ining these impatient Ores
     With Hammer, and with Blaze
     Untile the Designated Light
     Repudiate the Forge