Edwin Arlington Robinson
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,
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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Comments about this poem (The Burning Book by Edwin Arlington Robinson )
The Road Not Taken
If You Forget Me
Still I Rise
Edgar Allan Poe
Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening
I Know Why The Caged Bird Sings
William Ernest Henley
- Let not this earth be divided, gajanan mishra
- With situation, hasmukh amathalal
- Misery Loves Company, Bill Cantrell
- Hot Summer Tanka, Toshie Nohara
- No need to ask, gajanan mishra
- Truth, Tony Adah
- Walking the dog, Nassy Fesharaki
- Prince Charming, Electric Lady
- With promising words, hasmukh amathalal
- pray to me, tara mahdavi