Tonight the moon dreams with more indolence,

To-night the Moon dreams with increased weariness,

Like a lovely woman on a bed of cushions

Like a beauty stretched forth on a downy heap

Who fondles with a light and listless hand

Of rugs, while her languorous fingers caress

The contour of her breasts before falling asleep;

The contour of her breasts, before falling to sleep.

On the satiny back of the billowing clouds,

On the satin back of the avalanche soft,

Languishing, she lets herself fall into long swoons

She falls into lingering swoons, as she dies,

And casts her eyes over the white phantoms

While she lifteth her eyes to white visions aloft,

That rise in the azure like blossoming flowers.

Which like efflorescence float up to the skies.

When, in her lazy listlessness,

When at times, in her languor, down on to this sphere,

She sometimes sheds a furtive tear upon this globe,

She slyly lets trickle a furtive tear,

A pious poet, enemy of sleep,

A poet, desiring slumber to shun,

In the hollow of his hand catches this pale tear,

Takes up this pale tear in the palm of his hand

With the iridescent reflections of opal,

(The colours of which like an opal blend),

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

And buries it far from the eyes of the sun.