They say the world is round, and yetI often think it square,
So many little hurts we
From corners here and there.
But one great truth in life I've found,
While journeying to the West-The only folks who really
Are those we love the best.
The man you thoroughly
Can rouse your wrath, 'tis true;
Annoyance in your heart will
At things mere strangers do;
But those are only passing ills;
This rule all lives will prove;
The rankling wound which aches and
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
To those who love us best.
Love does not grow on every tree,
Nor true hearts yearly bloom.
Alas for those who only
This cut across a tomb!
But, soon or late, the fact grows
To all through sorrow's test:
The only folks who give us
Are those we love the best.
