Edwin Arlington Robinson

The Burning Book

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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