Love is like wild rose-briar

Frinedship like the holly-tree

The holly is dark when the

rose-briar blooms

But wichi will bloom most

constantly?

The wild-rose 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 rose-wreath now
And deck thee with the holly’s sheen,
That when December blights thy brow
He may still leave thy garland green.

Poem by Emily bronte