Lifes Scars

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.