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