To-night the Moon dreams with increased weariness,

The Moon more indolently dreams to-night

Like a beauty stretched forth on a downy heap

Than a fair woman on her couch at rest,

Of rugs, while her languorous fingers caress

Caressing, with a hand distraught and light,

The contour of her breasts, before falling to sleep.

Before she sleeps, the contour of her breast.

On the satin back of the avalanche soft,

Upon her silken avalanche of down,

She falls into lingering swoons, as she dies,

Dying she breathes a long and swooning sigh;

While she lifteth her eyes to white visions aloft,

And watches the white visions past her flown,

Which like efflorescence float up to the skies.

Which rise like blossoms to the azure sky.

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

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

She slyly lets trickle a furtive tear,

Earthward she lets a furtive tear-drop flow,

A poet, desiring slumber to shun,

Some pious poet, enemy of sleep,

Takes up this pale tear in the palm of his hand

Takes in his hollow hand the tear of snow

(The colours of which like an opal blend),

Whence gleams of iris and of opal start,

And buries it far from the eyes of the sun.

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