The town, the churchyard, and the setting sun, br The clouds, the trees, the rounded hills all seem, br Though beautiful, cold- strange- as in a dream br I dreamed long ago, now new begun. br The short-liv'd, paly summer is but won br From winter's ague for one hour's gleam; br Through sapphire warm their stars do never beam: br All is cold Beauty; pain is never done. br For who has mind to relish, Minos-wise, br The real of Beauty, free from that dead hue br Sickly imagination and sick pride br Cast wan upon it? Burns! with honour due br I oft have honour'd thee. Great shadow, hide br Thy face; I sin against thy native skies.