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.