Emily Bronte

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 the spring.

It's 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.