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Poem by Ella Wheeler Wilcox


Lifes Scars


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 Ive 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 sorrows test:
The only folks who give us pain
Are those we love the best.



Ella Wheeler Wilcox


Ella Wheeler Wilcox's other poems:
  1. The Birth of the Opal
  2. The Chain
  3. At Forty-Eight
  4. Artist and Man
  5. As by Fire


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