Truth

How tender is the bud, yet mark aright
How sharp it thrusts; and how the moon is bright
Though gently falls its light.

Or of what medicine can any tell
But bitter is, that makes the sick man well?
(Dost mark my parallel?)

Soft as the water 'tis, that gives no pain
E'en to the eyeball, but that sweeps amain
And rends the earth in twain.

To pierce our doubts it's sharper than a spear, —
And yet than sweetness self how much more dear
To the attentive ear.

The ear receives it with a deep delight,
And on it travels till by truth's own might
It climbs to Brahma's height.

Ah, who by love of truth was e'er deceived?
Or who, when truth he rightly has received,
Has e'er by her been grieved?