They are saying the world is circular,
and but I normally consider it square,
So many little hurts we get
From corners right here and there.
But one exceptional fact in lifestyles I've discovered,
while journeying to the West-
the only men and women who relatively wound
Are those we love the excellent.
The person you totally despise
Can rouse your wrath, 'tis real;
Annoyance to your coronary heart will upward push
At matters mere strangers do;
however these are simplest passing ills;
This rule all lives will show;
The rankling wound which aches and thrills
Is dealt by means of hands we love.
The most excellent 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 recognize,
We please the fleeting visitor,
And deal full many a inconsiderate blow
to those who love us satisfactory.
Love does now not develop on every tree,
Nor proper hearts yearly bloom.
Sadly for many who handiest see
This cut throughout a tomb!
However, soon or late, the very fact grows simple
To all by means of sorrow's experiment:
the one persons who provide us discomfort
Are these we like the first-class.
