THE FLOWERS OF EVIL. Charles Baudelaire

      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.