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...LOW BAROMETER by ROBERT SEYMOUR BRIDGES THE PROSPECT by ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING THE OVIDIAN ELEGIAC METRE, DESCRIBED AND EXEMPLIFIED by SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE SUMMER. THE SECOND PASTORAL, OR ALEXIS by ALEXANDER POPE ODES II, 14 by QUINTUS HORATIUS FLACCUS SPANIARDS' GRAVES AT THE ISLES OF SHOALS by CELIA LEIGHTON THAXTER JOHN UNDERHILL by JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER |