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.
More verses by John Keats
- Sonnet. Written Upon The Top Of Ben Nevis
- Sonnet: As From The Darkening Gloom A Silver Dove
- Fragment Of 'The Castle Builder.'
- Sonnet V. To A Friend Who Sent Me Some Roses
- Lines On Seeing A Lock Of Milton's Hair