The moon tonight dreams vacantly, as if
She were a beauty cushioned at her rest
Who strokes with wandering hand her lifting
Nipples, and the contour of her breasts;
Lying as if for love, glazed by the soft
Luxurious avalanche, dying in swoons,
She turns her eyes to visions—clouds aloft
Billowing hugely, blossoming in blue.
When sometimes from her stupefying calm
On to this earth she drops a furtive tear
Pale as an opal, iridescent, rare,
The poet, sleepless watchman, is the one
To take it up within his hollowed palm
And in his heart to hide it from the sun.