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 lived, paly Summer is but won / From Winter's ague, for one hour's gleam; / Though 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.