Tonight the moon dreams with more indolence,

The Moon more indolently dreams to-night

Like a lovely woman on a bed of cushions

Than a fair woman on her couch at rest,

Who fondles with a light and listless hand

Caressing, with a hand distraught and light,

The contour of her breasts before falling asleep;

Before she sleeps, the contour of her breast.

On the satiny back of the billowing clouds,

Upon her silken avalanche of down,

Languishing, she lets herself fall into long swoons

Dying she breathes a long and swooning sigh;

And casts her eyes over the white phantoms

And watches the white visions past her flown,

That rise in the azure like blossoming flowers.

Which rise like blossoms to the azure sky.

When, in her lazy listlessness,

And when, at times, wrapped in her languor deep,

She sometimes sheds a furtive tear upon this globe,

Earthward she lets a furtive tear-drop flow,

A pious poet, enemy of sleep,

Some pious poet, enemy of sleep,

In the hollow of his hand catches this pale tear,

Takes in his hollow hand the tear of snow

With the iridescent reflections of opal,

Whence gleams of iris and of opal start,

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

And hides it from the Sun, deep in his heart.