To-night the Moon dreams with increased weariness, Like a beauty stretched forth on a downy heap Of rugs, while her languorous fingers caress The contour of her breasts, before falling to sleep. On the satin back of the avalanche soft, She falls into lingering swoons, as she dies, While she lifteth her eyes to white visions aloft, Which like efflorescence float up to the skies. When at times, in her languor, down on to this sphere, She slyly lets trickle a furtive tear, A poet, desiring slumber to shun, Takes up this pale tear in the palm of his hand (The colours of which like an opal blend), And buries it far from the eyes of the sun.