ILL LUCK
by: Charles Baudelaire (1821-1867)
 his heavy burden to uplift,
- O Sysiphus, thy pluck is required!
- And even though the heart aspired,
- Art is long and Time is swift.
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- Afar from sepulchres renowned,
- To a graveyard, quite apart,
- Like a broken drum, my heart,
- Beats the funeral marches' sound.
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- Many a buried jewel sleeps
- In the long-forgotten deeps,
- Far from mattock and from sound;
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- Many a flower wafts aloft
- Its perfumes, like a secret soft,
- Within the solitudes, profound.
| "Ill Luck" is reprinted from The Flowers of Evil. Charles Baudelaire. London: Elkin Mathews, 1909. |
MORE POEMS BY CHARLES BAUDELAIRE |
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