AGAIN the silent wheels of time <br />Their annual round have driven, <br />And you, tho' scarce in maiden prime, <br />Are so much nearer Heaven. <br /> <br /> <br />No gifts have I from Indian coasts <br />The infant year to hail; <br />I send you more than India boasts, <br />In Edwin's simple tale. <br /> <br /> <br />Our sex with guile, and faithless love, <br />Is charg'd, perhaps too true; <br />But may, dear maid, each lover prove <br />An Edwin still to you.<br /><br />Robert Burns<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/148-to-miss-logan-with-beattie-s-poems/
