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...CAMPUS SONNET: MAY MORNING by STEPHEN VINCENT BENET CONTRA MORTEM: THE CHILD by HAYDEN CARRUTH GREEN MOUNTAIN IDYL by HAYDEN CARRUTH SPRINGTIDE by GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON CELSUS AT HADRIAN'S VILLA by EDGAR LEE MASTERS TO A MAN WORKING HIS WAY THROUGH THE CROWD by MARIANNE MOORE |