  WE quarrel and make up again, And then some day, We quarrel, and forget, straightway, The making up. The first harsh word comes tremblingly— We shame to fling It forth—Ah me! ’twill wound and sting What we hold dear. Ashamed and penitent we cry “Forgive!” and kiss; There is a wealth of joy and bliss In making up. The next harsh word comes easier, Till by-and-by, We think it foolishness to cry For peace again. The discord swells in every line, And soon we grow So used to it we hardly know The once sweet air. We quarrel and make up again And then some day We quarrel and forget, straightway, The making up. |
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