This evening the Moon dreams more languidly,

More drowsy dreams the moon tonight. She rests

Like a beauty who on many cushions rests,

Like a proud beauty on heaped cushions pressing,

And with her light hand fondles lingeringly,

With light and absent-minded touch caressing,

Before she sleeps, the slope of her sweet breasts.

Before she sleeps, the contour of her breasts.

On her soft satined avalanches' height

On satin-shimmering, downy avalanches

Dying, she laps herself for hours and hours

She dies from swoon to swoon in languid change,

In long, long swoons, and gazes at the white

And lets her eyes on snowy visions range

Visions which rise athwart the blue-like flowers.

That in the azure rise like flowering branches.

When sometimes in her perfect indolence

When sometimes to this earth her languor calm

She lets a furtive tear steal gently thence.

Lets streak a stealthy tear, a pious poet,

Some pious poet, a lone, sleepless one,

The enemy of sleep, in his cupped palm,

Takes in his hollowed hand this gem, shot through,

Takes this pale tear, of liquid opal spun

Like an opal stone, with gleams of every hue,

With rainbow lights, deep in his heart to stow it

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

Far from the staring eyeballs of the Sun.