Edwin Arlington Robinson — The Burning Book

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