This heavy burden to uplift,
O Sysiphus, thy pluck is required!
And even though the heart aspired,
Art is long and Time is swift.
Afar from sepulchres renowned,
To a graveyard, quite apart,
Like a broken drum, my heart,
Beats the funeral marches' sound.
Many a buried jewel sleeps
In the long-forgotten deeps,
Far from mattock and from sound;
Many a flower wafts aloft
Its perfumes, like a secret soft,
Within the solitudes, profound.