Normale Version: Tantalus
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There thrills a happiness through all desire.
And aspiration – whatsoe’er its pain –
Finds solace still in struggling to attain.
The sorrow comes when men no more aspire

Because their aim, and not the toil, proved vain.
And he of old whose strength was doomed to tire
In fruitless, endless, effort to acquire
What most his soul was yearning to obtain

Must still have felt his very need inspire
The joy of hope, the consciousness of gain.
‘Tis when we grasp the prize which proves our bane

And learn ‘twere happiness, could we refrain,
That we shall find – as sated lusts expire -:
Hell is attainment of all ill desire.