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
|
|
-----------------
|
The Butterfly
|
Celtic Woman |