AGAIN the silent wheels of time
  Their annual round have driven,
And you, tho’ scarce in maiden prime,
  Are so much nearer Heaven.
 

No gifts have I from Indian coasts
  The infant year to hail;
I send you more than India boasts,
  In Edwin’s simple tale.
 

Our sex with guile, and faithless love,
  Is charg’d, perhaps too true;
But may, dear maid, each lover prove
  An Edwin still to you.

Added: Jan 3 2004 | Viewed: 2897 times | Comments (0)

Poet: Robert Burns
Poem: 148. 148. To Miss Logan, with Beattie’s Poems
Volume: Poems and Songs. The Harvard Classics. 1909–14.
Year: Published/Written in 1787
There are no comments for this poem. Why not be the first one to post something about it?

Are you looking for more information on this poem? Perhaps you are trying to analyze it? The poem, 148. To Miss Logan, with Beattie’s Poems, has not yet been commented on. You can click here to be the first to post a comment about it. Of course you can also always discuss poems by Robert Burns with others on the Poetry Connection poetry forum!