In cold metal this sonnet for you I turn Upon the dented anvil of my mind. My smithy fires black out - yet I will burn My heart to dreams again. The bellows wind Will be an angel woman's gentle pant More furious than the gathered shouts of Doom My forge will be flame-blossomed when the scant Kindlings of many fires are ghosts. To who[m] Will the frozen pretties plead against the chill Romantic corpses freezing where they lie All that was holy-fair? as dance-gods spill Out of the halls like tears from death's blank eye. O may you know, O may you understand When you touch cold Logic with your warm hand.