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-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.