On Visiting The Tomb Of Burns / Keats, John

                                      1816
                         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.

                        THE END
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