Mirth is the Mail of Anguish — - Emily Dickinson

The Hills erect their purple heads,
The Rivers lean to see — Yet Man has not, of all the throng,
A curiosity.

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.

Had I not seen the sun
I could’ve borne the shade
but light a newer wilderness
my wilderness has made —