More drowsy dreams the moon tonight. She rests

This evening the Moon dreams more languidly,

Like a proud beauty on heaped cushions pressing,

Like a beauty who on many cushions rests,

With light and absent-minded touch caressing,

And with her light hand fondles lingeringly,

Before she sleeps, the contour of her breasts.

Before she sleeps, the slope of her sweet breasts.

On satin-shimmering, downy avalanches

On her soft satined avalanches' height

She dies from swoon to swoon in languid change,

Dying, she laps herself for hours and hours

And lets her eyes on snowy visions range

In long, long swoons, and gazes at the white

That in the azure rise like flowering branches.

Visions which rise athwart the blue-like flowers.

When sometimes to this earth her languor calm

When sometimes in her perfect indolence

Lets streak a stealthy tear, a pious poet,

She lets a furtive tear steal gently thence.

The enemy of sleep, in his cupped palm,

Some pious poet, a lone, sleepless one,

Takes this pale tear, of liquid opal spun

Takes in his hollowed hand this gem, shot through,

With rainbow lights, deep in his heart to stow it

Like an opal stone, with gleams of every hue,

Far from the staring eyeballs of the Sun.

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