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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