A Women Can Make An

But To See Her Was To Love Her, Love But Her, And Love Forever.

When Chill November's Surly Blast Made Fields And Forests Bare.

Oh My Luve's Like A Red, Red Rose, That's Newly Sprung In June; Oh My Luve's Like The Melodie That's Sweetly Played In Tune.

In Durance Vile 1here Must I Wake And Weep, And All My Frowsy Couch In Sorrow Steep.

A Mind That Is Conscious Of Its Integrity Scorns To Say More Than It Means To Perform.