We are proclaimed, even against our wills—
If we are silent, then our silence speaks—
Children from tumbling on the summer hills
Come home with roses rooted in their cheeks.
I think no man can make his lie hold good,—
One way or other, truth is understood.
The selfishness that with our lives has grown,
Though outward grace its full expression bar,
Will crop out here and there, like belts of stone
From shallow soil, discovering what we are.
The thing most specious cannot stead the true,—
Who would appear clean, must be clean all through.
