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 holly's sheen,
That, when December blights thy brow,
      He still may leave thy garland green.

emily bronte (1818-1848)