To-night the Moon dreams with increased weariness,

More drowsy dreams the moon tonight. She rests

Like a beauty stretched forth on a downy heap

Like a proud beauty on heaped cushions pressing,

Of rugs, while her languorous fingers caress

With light and absent-minded touch caressing,

The contour of her breasts, before falling to sleep.

Before she sleeps, the contour of her breasts.

On the satin back of the avalanche soft,

On satin-shimmering, downy avalanches

She falls into lingering swoons, as she dies,

She dies from swoon to swoon in languid change,

While she lifteth her eyes to white visions aloft,

And lets her eyes on snowy visions range

Which like efflorescence float up to the skies.

That in the azure rise like flowering branches.

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

When sometimes to this earth her languor calm

She slyly lets trickle a furtive tear,

Lets streak a stealthy tear, a pious poet,

A poet, desiring slumber to shun,

The enemy of sleep, in his cupped palm,

Takes up this pale tear in the palm of his hand

Takes this pale tear, of liquid opal spun

(The colours of which like an opal blend),

With rainbow lights, deep in his heart to stow it

And buries it far from the eyes of the sun.

Far from the staring eyeballs of the Sun.