No man hath dared to write this thing as yet,
And yet I know, how that the souls of all men great At times pass athrough us,
And we are melted into them, and are not Save reflexions of their souls.
Thus am I Dante for a space and am One Francois Villon, ballad-lord and thief,
Or am such holy ones I may not write Lest blasphemy be writ against my name;
This for an instant and the flame is gone.'Tis as in midmost us there glows a sphere Translucent, molten gold, that is the "I" And into this some form projects itself:
Christus, or John, or eke the Florentine;
And as the clear space is not if a form's Imposed thereon,
So cease we from all being for the time,
And these, the Masters of the Soul, live on.
