Oh, in spite of Fate: the magnificent exuberances of
Our Being, effervescing into parks, -
Or as stone men standing beside the bases of
High portals, constructed under balconies!

Or the brass bell which every day raises its cudgel
Against the daily dull routine.
Or that sole one, at Karnak, the column, the column,
Which nearly outlasts the eternal temples.

Today that same overflow rushes past
Only as speed, from the horizontal yellow day
Into an exaggerated night bedazzled with lights.

But the rage passes and leaves no trace behind.
The curves of flight through the air, and those that ply them,
Perhaps none is without purpose. But only as memory.