Whatever is we only know
As in our minds we find it so;
No staring fact is half so clear
As one dim, preconceived idea—
No matter how the fact may glow

Vainly may Truth her trumpet blow
To stir our minds; like heavy dough
They stick to what they think—won't hear
Whatever is

Our ancient myths in solid row
Stand up—we simply have to go
And choke each fiction old and dear
Before the modest facts appear;
Then we may grasp, reluctant, slow,