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 holly's sheen, That, when December blights thy brow, He still may leave thy garland green.
Emily DickinsonAt least to pray is left - is left Oh Jesus - in the Air - I know not which thy chamber is - I'm knocking everywhere.
Emily DickinsonThese are the days when birds come back, a very few, a Bird or two, to take a backward look.
Emily Dickinson