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Beauty and Truth

by Ruby Archer

I walk in stately mansions
The great are kind to me
They find perhaps within my verse
A tang of novelty

If beauty gilds my rhyming,
How quickly they applaud;
But when the iron clamps my line,
Their thoughts are all abroad.

Ah! Beauty—I adore it,
And hold it ardently;
Yet beauty is a bloom that dies—
The truth is more to me.

How oft the truth refuses
To bend in singing smooth;
For thoughts uprooted from the soul
Come rugged and uncouth.

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