U.S. Politics Online

U.S. Politics Online Archives

ENTER THE U.S. POLITICS ONLINE DISCUSSION FORUM

Note: The text below is in the public domain.  This text is offered to the general public for non-profit educational purposes. U.S. Politics Online does not own any copyrights pertaining to the text. Any copyrights that may exist as to the format, translation, etc., resides with the respective author/formatter, not U.S. Politics Online. U.S. Politics Online did convert the original text file into html. Any errors with respect to formatting is a result of a program used to automate the process.

Due to the requirements for redistribution of this text by some of the sources, the original source from which I obtained the text at times will not be disclosed. If you would like information with respect to where I obtained the text then please send me an e-mail: archives@uspoliticsonline.com.  Such sources are not liable in any way for the text here. I would simply provide you with information where you can find the original text of the document, which may or may not be identical to what you see here. I have made every attempt to comply with the wishes of the sources of these documents.  If an error is found with respect to such compliance then please bring it to my attention immediately so the matter can be resolved. 

Also, if you are the person responsible for converting the text to the electronic format and would like credit for your work in the document, please e-mail me and I would be more than happy to comply.  Due to my conversion of these text documents into the html format and the possibility for errors to occur in said conversion, I did not want to inadvertently attribute such errors to you.


                                      1816
                         ON VISITING THE TOMB OF BURNS
                                 by John Keats
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.
                        THE END
.