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.