There’s right; there’s wrong.

    There’s right; there’s wrong.
          And there’s a wrongly right
              You’ve to gamble left
            To get to.
          But when the polished mirror
        Pans in tight,
      Suffer it long
      In longest, shadeless light:
        You can fight and heft
          Against a self-like juror;
                But, on unmeasured might,
                    Wrong is the rust you’re left to.
                    Less has been over-fussed,
                So over-trust yourself
            To shine what shimmer-must.
          Just a gust of true
          Is all that’s daring-due
              The yaw
                    That yearns
                                    You right.

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