The Burning Book

OR

HE

ED

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,

By the large and unclamoring peace    Of a dream that is ended.