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ISSUE:  Spring 1929

Yet do I love her still,
And always love her dearly,
Though angry winds blow chill,
Nipping severely;
Dark as a sunset hill,
Halt as a frozen rill,
My constant heart can still Love her so dearly,
O still,
O still, so dearly.
Sure as the daffodil
Comes up all golden yearly,
Though cloud and hail-wind shrill
Are glooming drearly;
So fate may bode but ill,
Yet do my heart and will Lift up their flower—still
Loving her dearly, 0 still,
O still, so dearly.


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