More drowsy dreams the moon tonight. She rests

Tonight the moon, by languorous memories obsessed,

Like a proud beauty on heaped cushions pressing,

Lies pensive and awake: a sleepless beauty amid

With light and absent-minded touch caressing,

The tossed and multitudinous cushions of her bed,

Before she sleeps, the contour of her breasts.

Caressing with an abstracted hand the curve of her breast.

On satin-shimmering, downy avalanches

Surrendered to her deep sadness as to a lover, for hours

She dies from swoon to swoon in languid change,

She lolls in the bright luxurious disarray of the sky —

And lets her eyes on snowy visions range

Haggard, entranced — and watches the small clouds float by

That in the azure rise like flowering branches.

Uncurling indolently in the blue air like flowers.

When sometimes to this earth her languor calm

When now and then upon this planet she lets fall,

Lets streak a stealthy tear, a pious poet,

Out of her idleness and sorrow, a secret tear,

The enemy of sleep, in his cupped palm,

Some poet — an enemy of slumber, musing apart —

Takes this pale tear, of liquid opal spun

Catches in his cupped hands the unearthly tribute, all

With rainbow lights, deep in his heart to stow it

Fiery and iridescent like an opal's sphere,

Far from the staring eyeballs of the Sun.

And hides it from the sun for ever in his heart.