THEY SAY the world is round, and yet I often think it square, So many little hurts we get From corners here and there. But one great truth in life I've found, While journeying to the West -- The only folks who really wound Are those we love the best. The man you thoroughly despise Can rouse your wrath, 'tis true; Annoyance in your heart will rise At things mere strangers do; But those are only passing ills; This rule all lives will prove; The rankling wound which aches and thrills Is dealt by hands we love. The choicest garb, the sweetest grace, Are oft to strangers shown; The careless mien, the frowning face, Are given to our own. We flatter those we scarcely know, We please the fleeting guest, And deal full many a thoughtless blow To those who love us best. Love does not grow on every tree, Nor true hearts yearly bloom. Alas for those who only see This cut across a tomb! But, soon or late, the fact grows plain To all through sorrow's test: The only folks who give us pain Are those we love the best. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...QUATORZAINS: 5. TO NIGHT by THOMAS LOVELL BEDDOES SONNETS FROM THE PORTUGUESE: 14 by ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING THE NINETEENTH OF APRIL, 1861 by LUCY LARCOM THE SHADOW DANCE by LOUISE CHANDLER MOULTON THE MORAL FABLES: THE MOUSE AND THE PADDOCK by AESOP WHERE YOUR FEET GO by JOSEPH AUSLANDER |