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.<br /><br />Ezra Pound<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/historion/
