Ill Luck

To bear so vast a load of grief Thy courage, Sisyphus, I crave! My heart against the task is brave, But Art is long and Time is brief.

For from Fame's proud sepulchral arches, Towards a graveyard lone and dumb, My sad heart, like a muffled drum, Goes beating slow funereal marches.

--Full many a shrouded jewel sleeps In dark oblivion, lost in deeps Unknown to pick or plummet's sound:

Full many a weeping blossom flings Her perfume, sweet as secret things, In silent solitudes profound. LE GUIGNON.