The Poetry Corner

Sorrows Of The Moon

By Charles Baudelaire

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.