Ill Luck

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Title:     Ill Luck
Author: Charles Baudelaire [More Titles by Baudelaire]

Translator: Cyril Scott

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.

[The end]
Charles Baudelaire's poem: Ill Luck

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