O take away these books that tell
1
The hideous so-called truth of things,
These little documents of hell;
Bring us the book that dreams and sings,
And whispers "all is well".
The beautiful is just as true,
6
And truer, perhaps, when all is told,
Than all this dross and dirt that you,
With little maggot eyes, behold—
Dull pedants of the seamy side
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Of Earth's fair robe of stars and flowers,—
Life is a stream where glories ride
'Twixt singing banks a-gold with towers,
Trumpets and pennoned pride.
Give us the book that flowers and flames
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With Love and Youth and noble tears,
Great Life, with all its laurelled games;
Give us again the "Musqueteers"—
And keep your Henry James.