Explore "To Miss Logan, with Beattie's Poems, for a New-Year's Gift" by Robert Burns on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
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.