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by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

   If fallacies come knocking at my door,
   I’d rather feed, and shelter full a score,
   Than hide behind the black portcullis, doubt,
   And run the risk of barring one Truth out.

   And if pretension for a time deceive,
   And prove me one too ready to believe,
   Far less my shame, than if by stubborn act,
   I brand as lie, some great colossal Fact.

   On my soul’s door, the latch-string hangs outside;
   Within, the lighted candle. Let me guide
   Some errant follies, on their wandering way,
   Rather, than Wisdom give no welcoming ray.


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