This Magazine of Ours

Cynic

There's pest of politicians — pest
Of every half-cracked whim of Youth;
Each truth is half a lie at best, —
And yet you think you tell the Truth!

Editor

Who knows the Truth? We can but give
White light and wind to every thought
That shakes the world; alone shall live
That part of Truth that's battle-wrought.

Cynic

Men's thoughts are commonplace and mean, —
Wind-vanes that turn and turn again.
You that should be so cold, serene —
Why kneel you in the dust of men?

Editor

Out of the dust of men shall well
All Beauty. Every whim of Youth
Is white-hot Life — And so, to tell
Humbly of Life, — is that not Truth?
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