148. To Miss Logan, With Beattie's Poems
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.
Friday, October 24, 2014
Topic(s) of this poem: time