Love and friendship


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    BY EMILY BRONTË
    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 wild rose-briar is sweet in 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 rose-wreath now
    And deck thee with the holly’s sheen,
    That when December blights thy brow
    He still may leave thy garland green.








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