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Charlotte Perkins Gilman
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, Whatever is.