More drowsy dreams the moon tonight. She rests

To-night the Moon dreams with increased weariness,

Like a proud beauty on heaped cushions pressing,

Like a beauty stretched forth on a downy heap

With light and absent-minded touch caressing,

Of rugs, while her languorous fingers caress

Before she sleeps, the contour of her breasts.

The contour of her breasts, before falling to sleep.

On satin-shimmering, downy avalanches

On the satin back of the avalanche soft,

She dies from swoon to swoon in languid change,

She falls into lingering swoons, as she dies,

And lets her eyes on snowy visions range

While she lifteth her eyes to white visions aloft,

That in the azure rise like flowering branches.

Which like efflorescence float up to the skies.

When sometimes to this earth her languor calm

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

Lets streak a stealthy tear, a pious poet,

She slyly lets trickle a furtive tear,

The enemy of sleep, in his cupped palm,

A poet, desiring slumber to shun,

Takes this pale tear, of liquid opal spun

Takes up this pale tear in the palm of his hand

With rainbow lights, deep in his heart to stow it

(The colours of which like an opal blend),

Far from the staring eyeballs of the Sun.

And buries it far from the eyes of the sun.