On Visiting The Tomb Of Burns

by John Keats

    The town, the churchyard, and the setting sun,
    The clouds, the trees, the rounded hills all seem,
    Though beautiful, cold, strange, as in a dream
    I dreamed long ago, now new begun.
    The short-liv'd, paly summer is but won
    From winter's ague for one hour's gleam;
    Through sapphire warm their stars do never beam:
    All is cold Beauty; pain is never done.
    For who has mind to relish, Minos-wise,
    The real of Beauty, free from that dead hue
    Sickly imagination and sick pride
    Cast wan upon it? Burns! with honour due
    I oft have honour'd thee. Great shadow, hide
    Thy face; I sin against thy native skies.