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

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