22 lines
909 B
Plaintext
22 lines
909 B
Plaintext
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1816
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ON VISITING THE TOMB OF BURNS
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by John Keats
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The town, the churchyard, and the setting sun,
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The clouds, the trees, the rounded hills all seem,
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Though beautiful, cold- strange- as in a dream
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I dreamed long ago, now new begun.
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The short-liv'd, paly summer is but won
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From winter's ague for one hour's gleam;
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Through sapphire warm their stars do never beam:
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All is cold Beauty; pain is never done.
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For who has mind to relish, Minos-wise,
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The real of Beauty, free from that dead hue
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Sickly imagination and sick pride
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Cast wan upon it? Burns! with honour due
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I oft have honour'd thee. Great shadow, hide
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Thy face; I sin against thy native skies.
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THE END
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