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