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 fair?
then scorn the silly rose-wreath now
and deck thee with the holly's sheen,
that when december blights thy brow
he still may leave thy garland green-
hope...by emily jane bronte
hope was but a timid friend;
she sat without the grated den,
watching how my fate would tend,
even as selfish-hearted men.
she was cruel in her fear;
through the bars, one dreary day,
i looked out to see her there,
and away she turned her face away!
like a false watch keeping,
still, in strife, she whispered peace;
she would sing while i was weeping;
if i listened, she would cease.
false she was, and unrelenting;
when my last joys strewed the ground,
even sorrow saw, repenting,
those sad relics scattered round:
hope, whose whisper would have given
balm to all my frenzied pain,
stretched her wings, and soared to heaven,
went, and ne'er returned again!
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