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.