The ore in the crucible is pungent, smelling like acrid wine, <br />It is dusky red, like the ebb of poppies, <br />And purple, like the blood of elderberries. <br />Surely it is a strong wine - juice distilled of the fierce iron. <br />I am drunk of its fumes. <br />I feel its fiery flux <br />Diffusing, permeating, <br />Working some strange alchemy… <br />So that I turn aside from the goodly board, <br />So that I look askance upon the common cup, <br />And from the mouths of crucibles <br />Suck forth the acrid sap.<br /><br />Lola Ridge<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/iron-wine/
