Tonight the moon dreams in a deeper languidness, <br />And, like a beauty on her cushions, lies at rest; <br />While drifting off to sleep, a tentative caress <br />Seeks, with a gentle hand, the contour of her breast; <br /> <br />As on a crest above her silken avalanche, <br />Dying, she yields herself to an unending swoon, <br />And sees a pallid vision everywhere she’d glance, <br />In the azure sky where blossoms have been strewn. <br /> <br />When sometime, in her weariness, upon her sphere <br />She might permit herself to sheda furtive tear, <br />A poet of great piety, a foe of sleep, <br /> <br />Catches in the hollow of his hand that tear, <br />An opal fragment, iridescent as a star; <br />Within his heart, far from the sun, it’s buried deep.<br /><br />Charles Baudelaire<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/sorrows-of-the-moon/
