The Making Up

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.