I should have kept nigh half the friends I've lost,
And held for dearest those I wronged the most.
Yet, when I see more cunning men evade
With colder tact, the blunders that I made;
Sometimes I wonder if the better part
Is not still mine, who lacked their subtle art.
For I have conned my book in harsher schools,
And learned from struggling what they worked by rules;
Learned—with some pain—more quickly to forgive
My fellow-blunderers, while they learn to live;