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.

Until you have loved, you cannot become yourself.

Inebriate of air am I, And debauchee of dew, Reeling, through endless summer days, From inns of molten blue.

A little Madness in the Spring Is wholesome even for the King.

Apparently with no surprise To any happy Flower The Frost beheads it at its play -- In accidental power -- The blonde Assassin passes on -- The Sun proceeds unmoved To measure off another Day For an Approving God.

Wonder is not precisely knowing.

Had we less to say to those we love, perhaps we should say it oftener.