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-lived, paly Summer is but wonFrom 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 hueSickly imagination and sick prideCast wan upon it! Burns! with honour dueI oft have honour'd thee. Great shadow, hideThy face; I sin against thy native skies.