I'm sick of this new-fangled schism,
This earth-and-stars dissension:
Idealism and realism,
Our brain-devised contention.

'Tis Art when mud is painted right
(Such is the false conclusion);
While heavenly visions, fair and bright,
Forsooth, are cloud-illusion.

But though the box be gold, yet snuff
Is snuff — so one supposes; —
And though the vase be cracked and rough,
Still roses will be roses.