Ah, listen, listen, it’s the formidable bound
Of the instinctive sun whose mane is all ablaze
And the dizzying race with frenzied, rhythmic sound
Of captive earth, where humans crawl as in a daze.
Aether dissolves its dead, it rocks its newly born,
Mixes new stars with ghostlike suns as if by chance,
But on the rails of time, all slide away, are drawn
As atoms in the strong vibrations of our dance.
Sheer flux! And nothingness! The contour that is drawn
Of worlds and hearts before all things disintegrate.
Appearance, lay your sacred trap is all I crave!
Throughout all spring, dispersed and in my soul still borne,
Oh Rose, whose spell I will have tasted at some date,
What does it matter if you’re but a scented grave?
I have added Part III for the sake of completeness. In my opinion it is a ghastly poem. It is confirmation that Marie Dauguet lost her centre from about 1909 onwards. Not always, but Futurism seems to have blighted her poetry.