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.

(Charles Baudelaire / Martin Eric Ain)