A Robert Burns Poem

MY godlike friend - nay, do not stare,
You think the phrase is odd-like;
But “God is love,” the saints declare,
Then surely thou art god-like.

And is thy ardour still the same?
And kindled still at ANNA?
Others may boast a partial flame,
But thou art a volcano!

Ev’n Wedlock asks not love beyond
Death’s tie-dissolving portal;
But thou, omnipotently fond,
May’st promise love immortal!

Thy wounds such healing powers defy,
Such symptoms dire attend them,
That last great antihectic try -
MARRIAGE perhaps may mend them.

Sweet Anna has an air-a grace,
Divine, magnetic, touching:
She talks, she charms-but who can trace
The process of bewitching? · · · · · ·