(also known as Moonlight, published in Fêtes galantes [1867], Paris)

Your soul, a richly expressed, exquisite country.
Clowns in pantomime and folk sing song,
Pluck the lute and dance, all almost
Sad beneath their fantastic disguises.

While singing on the lulling minor 
Those in love, the fortunate larks,
Can hardly believe such joy
As their song melds with the moonlight.

Serene, the mad lovely moonlight settling
Blanket that makes the birds dream in the trees,
And cry out ecstatic the water jets
Of the tall slender fountains among the city’s marbles.

Author: Paul Verlaine
Translator: Manny Grimaldi