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. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE HOMECOMING by THOMAS HARDY THE DAY OF JUDGEMENT by JONATHAN SWIFT RIVER OF SEVILLE by AL-KUTANDI THE VIOLET by ALEXANDER ANDERSON SEPTEMBER by MAVIS CLARE BARNETT TAKE YOUR CHOICE: AS EDGAR LEE MASTERS WOULD HANDLE IT. HILDA HYDE by BERTON BRALEY CREOLE SLAVE SONG: THE DIRGE OF SY. MALO by GEORGE WASHINGTON CABLE PREFIXED TO THOMAS RAVENSCROFT'S 'DISCOURSE...' by THOMAS CAMPION |