To bear up under such a load, ah Sisyphus, I need your heart: for though the will apply its goad yet Art is long, and Time is short. Far from the tombs of wealth and fame, to a graveyard that lies apart goes, like a muffled drum, my heart beating a dead march without name. How many gems lie buried deep in darkness . . . in oblivion sleep far from a pick or plummet's sound! How many flowers to sorrow bloom ... pour, like a secret, sweet perfume unknown in solitary ground. |