The Butterfly

This evening the moon dreams more lazily

As some fair woman, lost in cushions deep

With gentle hand caresses listlessly

The contour of her breasts before she sleeps

On velvet backs of avalanches soft

She often lies enraptured as she dies

And gazes on white visions aloft

Which like a blossoming to heaven rise

When sometimes on this globe, in indolence

She lets a secret tear drop down, by chance

A poet, set against oblivion

Takes in his hand this pale and furtive tear

This opal drop where rainbow hues appear

And hides it in his breast far from the sun