Tonight the moon dreams with more indolence,

Tonight the moon, by languorous memories obsessed,

Like a lovely woman on a bed of cushions

Lies pensive and awake: a sleepless beauty amid

Who fondles with a light and listless hand

The tossed and multitudinous cushions of her bed,

The contour of her breasts before falling asleep;

Caressing with an abstracted hand the curve of her breast.

On the satiny back of the billowing clouds,

Surrendered to her deep sadness as to a lover, for hours

Languishing, she lets herself fall into long swoons

She lolls in the bright luxurious disarray of the sky —

And casts her eyes over the white phantoms

Haggard, entranced — and watches the small clouds float by

That rise in the azure like blossoming flowers.

Uncurling indolently in the blue air like flowers.

When, in her lazy listlessness,

When now and then upon this planet she lets fall,

She sometimes sheds a furtive tear upon this globe,

Out of her idleness and sorrow, a secret tear,

A pious poet, enemy of sleep,

Some poet — an enemy of slumber, musing apart —

In the hollow of his hand catches this pale tear,

Catches in his cupped hands the unearthly tribute, all

With the iridescent reflections of opal,

Fiery and iridescent like an opal's sphere,

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

And hides it from the sun for ever in his heart.