Or the Contented Metaphysician
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o the lore of no manner of menWould his vision have yieldedWhen he found what will never againFrom his vision be shielded,--Though he paid with as much of his lifeAs 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 eyesOn the work he is doing,He considers the tinder that fliesAnd the quick flame pursuing.In the leaves that are crinkled and curledAre his ashes of glory,And what once were an end of the worldIs an end of a story. But he smiles, for no more shall his daysBe a toil and a callingFor a way to make others to gazeOn God's face without falling.He has come to the end of his words,And alone he rejoicesIn the choiring that silence affordsOf ineffable voices. To a realm that his words may not reachHe 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, attendedBy the large and unclamoring peaceOf a dream that is ended.
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