This evening the Moon dreams more languidly,

To-night the Moon dreams with increased weariness,

Like a beauty who on many cushions rests,

Like a beauty stretched forth on a downy heap

And with her light hand fondles lingeringly,

Of rugs, while her languorous fingers caress

Before she sleeps, the slope of her sweet breasts.

The contour of her breasts, before falling to sleep.

On her soft satined avalanches' height

On the satin back of the avalanche soft,

Dying, she laps herself for hours and hours

She falls into lingering swoons, as she dies,

In long, long swoons, and gazes at the white

While she lifteth her eyes to white visions aloft,

Visions which rise athwart the blue-like flowers.

Which like efflorescence float up to the skies.

When sometimes in her perfect indolence

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

She lets a furtive tear steal gently thence.

She slyly lets trickle a furtive tear,

Some pious poet, a lone, sleepless one,

A poet, desiring slumber to shun,

Takes in his hollowed hand this gem, shot through,

Takes up this pale tear in the palm of his hand

Like an opal stone, with gleams of every hue,

(The colours of which like an opal blend),

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

And buries it far from the eyes of the sun.