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 bre*sts 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