On Visiting The Tomb Of Burns

    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.