Sorrow of the Moon

More drowsy dreams the moon tonight. She rests

Like a proud beauty on heaped cushions pressing,

With light and absent-minded touch caressing,

Before she sleeps, the contour of her breasts.

On satin-shimmering, downy avalanches

She dies from swoon to swoon in languid change,

And lets her eyes on snowy visions range

That in the azure rise like flowering branches.

When sometimes to this earth her languor calm

Lets streak a stealthy tear, a pious poet,

The enemy of sleep, in his cupped palm,

Takes this pale tear, of liquid opal spun

With rainbow lights, deep in his heart to stow it

Far from the staring eyeballs of the Sun.