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; 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. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...TO W.P.: 2 by GEORGE SANTAYANA A SMILE AS SMALL AS MINE by EMILY DICKINSON THE DEBT by PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR JIM BLUDSO [OF THE PRAIRIE BELLE] by JOHN MILTON HAY ELEGY TO THE MEMORY OF AN UNFORTUNATE LADY by ALEXANDER POPE DARWINISM by AGNES MARY F. ROBINSON |