More drowsy dreams the moon tonight. She rests

Tonight the moon dreams with more indolence,

Like a proud beauty on heaped cushions pressing,

Like a lovely woman on a bed of cushions

With light and absent-minded touch caressing,

Who fondles with a light and listless hand

Before she sleeps, the contour of her breasts.

The contour of her breasts before falling asleep;

On satin-shimmering, downy avalanches

On the satiny back of the billowing clouds,

She dies from swoon to swoon in languid change,

Languishing, she lets herself fall into long swoons

And lets her eyes on snowy visions range

And casts her eyes over the white phantoms

That in the azure rise like flowering branches.

That rise in the azure like blossoming flowers.

When sometimes to this earth her languor calm

When, in her lazy listlessness,

Lets streak a stealthy tear, a pious poet,

She sometimes sheds a furtive tear upon this globe,

The enemy of sleep, in his cupped palm,

A pious poet, enemy of sleep,

Takes this pale tear, of liquid opal spun

In the hollow of his hand catches this pale tear,

With rainbow lights, deep in his heart to stow it

With the iridescent reflections of opal,

Far from the staring eyeballs of the Sun.

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