The Burning Book by Edwin Arlington Robinson Lyrics

Or the Contented Metaphysician
       &nbsp To the lore of no manner of men
       &nbsp Would his vision have yielded
When he found what will never again
       &nbsp From his vision be shielded,—
Though he paid with as much of his life
       &nbsp As a nun could have given,
And to-night would have been as a knife,
       &nbsp Devil-drawn, devil-driven.

For to-night, with his flame-weary eyes
       &nbsp On the work he is doing,
He considers the tinder that flies
       &nbsp And the quick flame pursuing.
In the leaves that are crinkled and curled
       &nbsp Are his ashes of glory,
And what once were an end of the world
       &nbsp Is an end of a story.

But he smiles, for no more shall his days
       &nbsp Be a toil and a calling
For a way to make others to gaze
       &nbsp On God's face without falling.
He has come to the end of his words,
       &nbsp And alone he rejoices
In the choiring that silence affords
       &nbsp Of ineffable voices.
To a realm that his words may not reach
       &nbsp He may lead none to find him;
An adept, and with nothing to teach,
       &nbsp He leaves nothing behind him.
For the rest, he will have his release,
       &nbsp And his embers, attended
By the large and unclamoring peace
       &nbsp Of a dream that is ended.