An Philia
An Philia


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
It's the scent of summer blossoms in the air;
Yet wait till winter comes again
And who will call the wild - the briar fair?
Then scorn the silly rose wreath now
And deck thee with the holly sheen,
That's when December blights thy brow
He may still leave the garland green.