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Edwin Arlington Robinson - The Burning Book
Work rating: Medium

OR THE CONTENTED METAPHYSICIAN

TO the lore of no manner of men  
  Would his vision have yielded  
When he found what will never again  
  From his vision be shielded,—  
Though he paid with as much of his life
  As a nun could have given,  
And to-night would have been as a knife,  
  Devil-drawn, devil-driven.  
  
For to-night, with his flame-weary eyes  
  On the work he is doing,
He considers the tinder that flies  
  And the quick flame pursuing.  
In the leaves that are crinkled and curled  
  Are his ashes of glory,  
And what once were an end of the world
  Is an end of a story.  
  
But he smiles, for no more shall his days  
  Be a toil and a calling  
For a way to make others to gaze  
  On God’s face without falling.
He has come to the end of his words,  
  And alone he rejoices  
In the choiring that silence affords  
  Of ineffable voices.  
  
To a realm that his words may not reach 
  He may lead none to find him;  
An adept, and with nothing to teach,  
  He leaves nothing behind him.  
For the rest, he will have his release,  
  And his embers, attended
By the large and unclamoring peace  
  Of a dream that is ended.
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