The Burning Book
Edwin Arlington Robinson 1869 – 1935
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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Submitted on May 13, 2011
Modified on April 26, 2023
- 1:03 min read
- 1,669 Views
Quick analysis:
Scheme | A ABAXCACA DEDEFGFG HEHEXDXX IJIJKBKB |
---|---|
Closest metre | Iambic tetrameter |
Characters | 1,067 |
Words | 210 |
Stanzas | 5 |
Stanza Lengths | 1, 8, 8, 8, 8 |
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"The Burning Book" Poetry.com. STANDS4 LLC, 2024. Web. 29 Apr. 2024. <https://www.poetry.com/poem/10034/the-burning-book>.
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