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
.