Love is like the wild rose-briar
Friendship like the holly-tree
The holly is dark when the rose-briar blooms
But which will bloom most constantly?
The wildrose briar is sweet in the spring,
Its summer blossoms scent the air;
Yet wait till winter comes again
And who will call the wild-briar fair?
Then scorn the silly rosewreath now
And deck thee with the holly's sheen,
That, when December blights thy brow,
He may still leave thy garland green.
Emily Brontë