To-night the Moon dreams with increased weariness,

This evening the Moon dreams more languidly,

Like a beauty stretched forth on a downy heap

Like a beauty who on many cushions rests,

Of rugs, while her languorous fingers caress

And with her light hand fondles lingeringly,

The contour of her breasts, before falling to sleep.

Before she sleeps, the slope of her sweet breasts.

On the satin back of the avalanche soft,

On her soft satined avalanches' height

She falls into lingering swoons, as she dies,

Dying, she laps herself for hours and hours

While she lifteth her eyes to white visions aloft,

In long, long swoons, and gazes at the white

Which like efflorescence float up to the skies.

Visions which rise athwart the blue-like flowers.

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

When sometimes in her perfect indolence

She slyly lets trickle a furtive tear,

She lets a furtive tear steal gently thence.

A poet, desiring slumber to shun,

Some pious poet, a lone, sleepless one,

Takes up this pale tear in the palm of his hand

Takes in his hollowed hand this gem, shot through,

(The colours of which like an opal blend),

Like an opal stone, with gleams of every hue,

And buries it far from the eyes of the sun.

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