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 honor due

I oft have honor'd thee. Great shadow, hide

Thy face; I sin against thy native skies.