More drowsy dreams the moon tonight. She rests

The Moon more indolently dreams to-night

Like a proud beauty on heaped cushions pressing,

Than a fair woman on her couch at rest,

With light and absent-minded touch caressing,

Caressing, with a hand distraught and light,

Before she sleeps, the contour of her breasts.

Before she sleeps, the contour of her breast.

On satin-shimmering, downy avalanches

Upon her silken avalanche of down,

She dies from swoon to swoon in languid change,

Dying she breathes a long and swooning sigh;

And lets her eyes on snowy visions range

And watches the white visions past her flown,

That in the azure rise like flowering branches.

Which rise like blossoms to the azure sky.

When sometimes to this earth her languor calm

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

Lets streak a stealthy tear, a pious poet,

Earthward she lets a furtive tear-drop flow,

The enemy of sleep, in his cupped palm,

Some pious poet, enemy of sleep,

Takes this pale tear, of liquid opal spun

Takes in his hollow hand the tear of snow

With rainbow lights, deep in his heart to stow it

Whence gleams of iris and of opal start,

Far from the staring eyeballs of the Sun.

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