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...TWO SONGS OF A FOOL: 2 by WILLIAM BUTLER YEATS LORD, HEAR MY PRAYER; A PARAPHRASE OF THE 102ND PSALM by JOHN CLARE LONDON'S SUMMER MORNING by MARY DARBY ROBINSON TRISTRAM AND ISEULT by MATTHEW ARNOLD TO THE NIGHTINGALE by PHILIP AYRES VERSES IN A WATCH by WILLIAM CZAR BRADLEY THE MURDERED TRAVELLER by WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT |