vilmarsdotters blogg

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, 
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.