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John Keats - On Visiting The Tomb Of Burns
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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.
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