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.