This evening the Moon dreams more languidly,

Tonight the moon dreams with more indolence,

Like a beauty who on many cushions rests,

Like a lovely woman on a bed of cushions

And with her light hand fondles lingeringly,

Who fondles with a light and listless hand

Before she sleeps, the slope of her sweet breasts.

The contour of her breasts before falling asleep;

On her soft satined avalanches' height

On the satiny back of the billowing clouds,

Dying, she laps herself for hours and hours

Languishing, she lets herself fall into long swoons

In long, long swoons, and gazes at the white

And casts her eyes over the white phantoms

Visions which rise athwart the blue-like flowers.

That rise in the azure like blossoming flowers.

When sometimes in her perfect indolence

When, in her lazy listlessness,

She lets a furtive tear steal gently thence.

She sometimes sheds a furtive tear upon this globe,

Some pious poet, a lone, sleepless one,

A pious poet, enemy of sleep,

Takes in his hollowed hand this gem, shot through,

In the hollow of his hand catches this pale tear,

Like an opal stone, with gleams of every hue,

With the iridescent reflections of opal,

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

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