Page:Collected poems Robinson, Edwin Arlington.djvu/65

 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.