To-night the Moon dreams with increased weariness,

Tonight the moon dreams with more indolence,

Like a beauty stretched forth on a downy heap

Like a lovely woman on a bed of cushions

Of rugs, while her languorous fingers caress

Who fondles with a light and listless hand

The contour of her breasts, before falling to sleep.

The contour of her breasts before falling asleep;

On the satin back of the avalanche soft,

On the satiny back of the billowing clouds,

She falls into lingering swoons, as she dies,

Languishing, she lets herself fall into long swoons

While she lifteth her eyes to white visions aloft,

And casts her eyes over the white phantoms

Which like efflorescence float up to the skies.

That rise in the azure like blossoming flowers.

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

When, in her lazy listlessness,

She slyly lets trickle a furtive tear,

She sometimes sheds a furtive tear upon this globe,

A poet, desiring slumber to shun,

A pious poet, enemy of sleep,

Takes up this pale tear in the palm of his hand

In the hollow of his hand catches this pale tear,

(The colours of which like an opal blend),

With the iridescent reflections of opal,

And buries it far from the eyes of the sun.

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