The Man Against the Sky: A Book of Poems

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.