Pour soulever un poids si lourd,
Sisyphe, il faudrait ton courage!
Bien qu'on ait du coeur à l'ouvrage,
L'Art est long et le Temps est court.
Loin des sépultures célèbres,
Vers un cimetière isolé,
Mon coeur, comme un tambour voilé,
Va battant des marches funèbres.— Maint joyau dort
Dans les ténèbres et l'oubli,
Bien loin des pioches et des sondes;
Mainte fleur épanche à
Son parfum doux comme un secret Dans les solitudes profondes.
Evil
To lift a weight so heavy,
Would take your courage,
Sisyphus!
Although one's heart is in the work,
Art is long and Time is short.
Far from famous sepulchers Toward a lonely cemetery My heart, like muffled drums,
Goes beating funeral marches.
Many a jewel lies buried In darkness and oblivion,
Far, far away from picks and drills;
Many a flower regretfully Exhales perfume soft as secrets In a profound solitude.— Translated by William
Ill Luck So huge a burden to support Your courage,
Sisyphus, would ask;
Well though my heart attacks its task,
Yet Art is long and Time is short.
Far from the famed memorial arch Towards a lonely grave I come.
My heart in its funereal march Goes beating like a muffled drum.— Yet many a gem lies hidden still Of whom no pick-axe, spade, or drill The lonely secrecy invades;
And many a flower, to heal regret,
Pours forth its fragrant secret yet Amidst the solitary shades.— Translated by Roy
Ill-StarredA man would needs be brave and
As Sisyphus, for such a task!
It is not greater zeal I ask — But life is brief, and art is long.
To a forsaken mound of clay Where no admirers ever come,
My heart, like an invisible drum,
Goes beating a dead march all day.
Many a jewel of untold worth Lies slumbering at the core of earth,
In darkness and oblivion drowned;
Many a flower has bloomed and spent The secret of its passionate scent Upon the wilderness profound.— Translated by George
To bear a weight that cannot be borne,
Sisyphus, even you aren't that strong,
Although your heart cannot be torn Time is short and Art is long.
Far from celebrated sepulchers Toward a solitary graveyard My heart, like a drum muffled hard Beats a funeral march for the ill-starred. —Many jewels are buried or shrouded In darkness and oblivion's clouds,
Far from any pick or drill bit,
Many a flower unburdens with regret Its perfume sweet like a secret;
In profoundly empty solitude to sit.
Translated by William A.
Sigler
