The Moon more indolently dreams to-night

Tonight the moon dreams with more indolence,

Than a fair woman on her couch at rest,

Like a lovely woman on a bed of cushions

Caressing, with a hand distraught and light,

Who fondles with a light and listless hand

Before she sleeps, the contour of her breast.

The contour of her breasts before falling asleep;

Upon her silken avalanche of down,

On the satiny back of the billowing clouds,

Dying she breathes a long and swooning sigh;

Languishing, she lets herself fall into long swoons

And watches the white visions past her flown,

And casts her eyes over the white phantoms

Which rise like blossoms to the azure sky.

That rise in the azure like blossoming flowers.

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

When, in her lazy listlessness,

Earthward she lets a furtive tear-drop flow,

She sometimes sheds a furtive tear upon this globe,

Some pious poet, enemy of sleep,

A pious poet, enemy of sleep,

Takes in his hollow hand the tear of snow

In the hollow of his hand catches this pale tear,

Whence gleams of iris and of opal start,

With the iridescent reflections of opal,

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

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