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...SARAH'S MONSTERS by KAREN SWENSON THE ROMANCE OF THE SWAN'S NEST by ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING THOMAS MACDONAGH by FRANCIS LEDWIDGE THE BLIND GIRL OF CASTEL-CUILLE by JACQUES BOE TO-NIGHT ACROSS THE SEA by WILLIAM STANLEY BRAITHWAITE THE PLUCKY PRINCE by MAY BRYANT TO EDWARD NOEL LONG, ESQ. by GEORGE GORDON BYRON |