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.