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, Its summer blossoms scent the air; Yet wait till winter comes again And who will call the wild-briar . . .
from Silent is the House
Come, the wind may never again Blow as now it blows for us; And the stars may never again shine as now they shine; Long before October returns, Seas of blood will have parted us; And you must crush the love in your heart, and I the love in mine! —Emily Brontë Check out Funny Love . . .