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This evening the moon dreams more lazily |
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As some fair woman, lost in cushions deep |
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With gentle hand caresses listlessly |
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The contour of her breasts before she sleeps |
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On velvet backs of avalanches soft |
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She often lies enraptured as she dies |
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And gazes on white visions aloft |
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Which like a blossoming to heaven rise |
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When sometimes on this globe, in indolence |
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She lets a secret tear drop down, by chance |
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A poet, set against oblivion |
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Takes in his hand this pale and furtive tear |
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This opal drop where rainbow hues appear |
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And hides it in his breast far from the sun |
