Tonight the moon dreams with more indolence,

More drowsy dreams the moon tonight. She rests

Like a lovely woman on a bed of cushions

Like a proud beauty on heaped cushions pressing,

Who fondles with a light and listless hand

With light and absent-minded touch caressing,

The contour of her breasts before falling asleep;

Before she sleeps, the contour of her breasts.

On the satiny back of the billowing clouds,

On satin-shimmering, downy avalanches

Languishing, she lets herself fall into long swoons

She dies from swoon to swoon in languid change,

And casts her eyes over the white phantoms

And lets her eyes on snowy visions range

That rise in the azure like blossoming flowers.

That in the azure rise like flowering branches.

When, in her lazy listlessness,

When sometimes to this earth her languor calm

She sometimes sheds a furtive tear upon this globe,

Lets streak a stealthy tear, a pious poet,

A pious poet, enemy of sleep,

The enemy of sleep, in his cupped palm,

In the hollow of his hand catches this pale tear,

Takes this pale tear, of liquid opal spun

With the iridescent reflections of opal,

With rainbow lights, deep in his heart to stow it

And hides it in his heart afar from the sun's eyes.

Far from the staring eyeballs of the Sun.