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.

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