<h2> The Burning Book </h2>
<p>Or the Contented Metaphysician<br/></p>
<p>To the lore of no manner of men<br/>
Would his vision have yielded<br/>
When he found what will never again<br/>
From his vision be shielded,—<br/>
Though he paid with as much of his life<br/>
As a nun could have given,<br/>
And to-night would have been as a knife,<br/>
Devil-drawn, devil-driven.<br/>
<br/>
For to-night, with his flame-weary eyes<br/>
On the work he is doing,<br/>
He considers the tinder that flies<br/>
And the quick flame pursuing.<br/>
In the leaves that are crinkled and curled<br/>
Are his ashes of glory,<br/>
And what once were an end of the world<br/>
Is an end of a story.<br/>
<br/>
But he smiles, for no more shall his days<br/>
Be a toil and a calling<br/>
For a way to make others to gaze<br/>
On God's face without falling.<br/>
He has come to the end of his words,<br/>
And alone he rejoices<br/>
In the choiring that silence affords<br/>
Of ineffable voices.<br/>
<br/>
To a realm that his words may not reach<br/>
He may lead none to find him;<br/>
An adept, and with nothing to teach,<br/>
He leaves nothing behind him.<br/>
For the rest, he will have his release,<br/>
And his embers, attended<br/>
By the large and unclamoring peace<br/>
Of a dream that is ended.<br/></p>
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