When I grow peevish over care
And into fits of temper fly
O'er crosses which I ought to bear,
Disgusted with myself I am.
When irritation I display
And look with angers flashing eyes,
Our hurts I aught to laugh away,
Myself I thoroughly despise.
Though others pass the tantrum by
'Tis something which I can't forget,
It bothers me to think that I
Can be so easily upset.
When to some real or fancied wrong
Up to my best I've failed to live;
For being weak instead of strong
Myself I never guite forgive.
By: Edgar Guest
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