Winter's Not Gone Yet, If The Wild

The Eyes Are The Window To Your Soul

An Overflow Of Good Converts To Bad.

Make Me A Willow Cabin At Your Gate, And Call Upon My Soul Within The House; Write Loyal Cantons Of Contemned Love And Sing Them Loud Even In The Dead Of Night.

That Man That Hath A Tongue, I Say Is No Man, If With His Tongue He Cannot Win A Woman.

Alas, How Love Can Trifle With Itself!