今夜，月亮进入无限慵懒的梦中，

The Moon more indolently dreams to-night

像在重叠的垫褥上躺着的美人，

Than a fair woman on her couch at rest,

在入寐以前，用她的手，漫不经心

Caressing, with a hand distraught and light,

轻轻将自己乳房的轮廓抚弄，

Before she sleeps, the contour of her breast.

在雪崩似的绵软的缎子背上，

Upon her silken avalanche of down,

月亮奄奄一息地耽于昏厥状态，

Dying she breathes a long and swooning sigh;

她的眼睛眺望那如同百花盛开

And watches the white visions past her flown,

向蓝天里袅袅上升的白色幻象。

Which rise like blossoms to the azure sky.

有时，当她感到懒洋洋无事可为，

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

给地球上滴下一滴悄悄的眼泪，

Earthward she lets a furtive tear-drop flow,

一位虔诚的诗人，厌恶睡眠之士，

Some pious poet, enemy of sleep,

就把这一滴像猫眼石碎片一样

Takes in his hollow hand the tear of snow

闪着红光的苍白眼泪收进手掌，

Whence gleams of iris and of opal start,

放进远离太阳眼睛的他的心里。

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