The Anvil

Burned from the ore’s rejected dross,  
The iron whitens in the heat.  
With plangent strokes of pain and loss  
The hammers on the iron beat.  
Searched by the fire, through death and dole  
We feel the iron in our soul.  
 
O dreadful Forge! if torn and bruised  
The heart, more urgent comes our cry  
Not to be spared but to be used,  
Brain, sinew, and spirit, before we die.  
Beat out the iron, edge it keen,  
And shape us to the end we mean.