Anima Mundi (Chap.17) William Butler Yeats

I longed to know something even if it were but the family and Christian names of those minds that I could divine, and that yet remained always as it seemed impersonal. The sense of contact came perhaps but two or three times with clearness and certainty, but it left among all to whom it came some trace, a sudden silence, as it were, in the midst of thought or perhaps at moments of crisis a faint voice. Were our masters right when they declared so solidly that we should be content to know these presences that seemed friendly and near but as “the phantom” in Coleridge’s poem, and to think of them perhaps, as having, as St. Thomas says, entered upon the eternal possession of themselves in one single moment?

                             “All look and likeness caught from earth,
                             All accident of kin and birth,
                             Had passed away. There was no trace
                             Of ought on that illumined face,
                             Upraised beneath the rifted stone,
                             But of one spirit all her own;
                             She, she herself and only she,
                             Shone through her body visibly.”