Baudelaire Read the poem: “Ill Luck”

by Charles Baudelaire

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To bear so vast a load of grief
Thy courage, Sisyphus, I crave!
My heart against the task is brave,
But Art is long and Time is brief.

For from Fame’s proud sepulchral arches,
Towards a graveyard lone and dumb,
My sad heart, like a muffled drum,
Goes beating slow funereal marches.

—Full many a shrouded jewel sleeps
In dark oblivion, lost in deeps
Unknown to pick or plummet’s sound:

Full many a weeping blossom flings
Her perfume, sweet as secret things,
In silent solitudes profound.
LE GUIGNON.

Translated by W. J. Robertson

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