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 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.