John Keats(1795–1821) · Life, Letters, and Literary Remains, of John Keats · 1848
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.