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.

Poet: Ezra Pound
Poem: Historion

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