The Moon more indolently dreams to-night

To-night the Moon dreams with increased weariness,

Than a fair woman on her couch at rest,

Like a beauty stretched forth on a downy heap

Caressing, with a hand distraught and light,

Of rugs, while her languorous fingers caress

Before she sleeps, the contour of her breast.

The contour of her breasts, before falling to sleep.

Upon her silken avalanche of down,

On the satin back of the avalanche soft,

Dying she breathes a long and swooning sigh;

She falls into lingering swoons, as she dies,

And watches the white visions past her flown,

While she lifteth her eyes to white visions aloft,

Which rise like blossoms to the azure sky.

Which like efflorescence float up to the skies.

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

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

Earthward she lets a furtive tear-drop flow,

She slyly lets trickle a furtive tear,

Some pious poet, enemy of sleep,

A poet, desiring slumber to shun,

Takes in his hollow hand the tear of snow

Takes up this pale tear in the palm of his hand

Whence gleams of iris and of opal start,

(The colours of which like an opal blend),

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

And buries it far from the eyes of the sun.