Tonight the moon dreams with more indolence,

This evening the Moon dreams more languidly,

Like a lovely woman on a bed of cushions

Like a beauty who on many cushions rests,

Who fondles with a light and listless hand

And with her light hand fondles lingeringly,

The contour of her breasts before falling asleep;

Before she sleeps, the slope of her sweet breasts.

On the satiny back of the billowing clouds,

On her soft satined avalanches' height

Languishing, she lets herself fall into long swoons

Dying, she laps herself for hours and hours

And casts her eyes over the white phantoms

In long, long swoons, and gazes at the white

That rise in the azure like blossoming flowers.

Visions which rise athwart the blue-like flowers.

When, in her lazy listlessness,

When sometimes in her perfect indolence

She sometimes sheds a furtive tear upon this globe,

She lets a furtive tear steal gently thence.

A pious poet, enemy of sleep,

Some pious poet, a lone, sleepless one,

In the hollow of his hand catches this pale tear,

Takes in his hollowed hand this gem, shot through,

With the iridescent reflections of opal,

Like an opal stone, with gleams of every hue,

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

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