1. O light of the fields, O joy of the farmer at dawn in the meadows,
Come; for spring still lingers in the valley, so let your echo resound before it wanes.

2. The eyes behold only its remnants, and nothing but daydreaming of its traces.
A bouquet by a brook shaking off beams upon it and tossing in its stillness.

3. And in every playground a rosy flower that escaped from its seasons.
In the gloomy evening, and the desolate crossing, and the sullen stones around it,

4. Attentively listening, about to imagine from intense listening the horizon bursting apart.
I gaze at the path whenever the wind blows and the old trees rustle their leaves,

5. Whenever the howl of a farmer grieving the stars with the complaint of his day,
Cries: "O night," and the distant echo awakens on the hillside and what is around it.

6. Then every hill echoes: "O night," and the echo sleeps on its zither!
Where are the flutters of your white feet among the grass above its greenery,

7. Like two stars escaped from their orbits so the light beams aimlessly,
Or two white butterflies awoke to steal nectar from its goblet!

8. You are in every darkness an appointment and intimacy, your day still awaits.