Poems, by John Keats

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.


Last updated Sunday, March 27, 2016 at 11:56