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44
BLOSSOMS OF EVIL
What boots it, seraph or siren, from God’s height
Or Satan’s hell, O queen! if thou dost come
Soft-eyed, to make, with rhythm, scent, and light,
The world less dull and time less burdensome?
ILL-LUCK
O Sisyphus, thy strength were meet
A load so heavy to sustain;
The soul for work is very fain,
But Art is long, and Time is fleet.
Towards a lonely cemetery
From all famed sepulchres apart,
Like to a muffled drum my heart
Beats funeral marches ceaselessly.
Jewels many and many a one
Lie hid in dark oblivion
Far, far from pick or plummet’s ken;
Many sweet flowers’ scented breath
Is lavished till they fade in death
In solitudes untrod by men.
