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There is nothing against Truth being expressed in Poetry, even though most Poetry is lies.

"Nox est perpetua una dormiunda" is Poetry—though it is sternly true; at least, it is half true.

And "between a sleep and a sleep" is Poetry, and so is "Our little life is rounded with a sleep" ... where the operative word is "rounded."

("Every English sentence, Gentlemen," said the Professor to his class, "contains an operative word. For instance, in the sentence: 'Every gentleman who hits a cocoanut will receive a good cigar,' the operative word is not 'gentleman,' but 'good.'")

So also is both Poetry and profoundly true that line of granite:

L'amour est un plaisir, l'honneur est un devoir

which I quote again and again; though I suppose a great many people will say it is not Poetry at all, and cannot be, because it is written in a foreign language. Well! Well!

So is also:

Dead honour risen out-does love at last.

That also is Poetry, though in the more formal manner. But that last line has this drawback about it; which is, that only those who have lived to a certain age and in a certain way can know the truth of it; and that those who have not lived the truth of it will not make much of it anyhow. Young people will make nothing of it, nor those who have become old blamelessly, of whom a great number are to be found to this day in the outlying parts and among seafaring men.