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.