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