On Visiting the Tomb of Burns

Written at Dumfries on the evening of July 1, 1818. 'Burns's tomb,' writes Keats, 'is in the Churchyard corner, not very much to my taste, though on a scale large enough to show they wanted to honour him. This Sonnet I have written in a strange mood, half asleep. I know not how it is, the Clouds, the Sky, the Houses, all seem anti-Grecian and anti-Charlemagnish.'

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.