Читать книгу THE FLOWERS OF EVIL - Charles Baudelaire - Страница 9

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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.