Dreary the horn sounds in the eve on the hill,

Sheepflocks return, stars on their way twinkle still,

Watersprings weep murmuring clear, and I see
Under an acacia tree, love, thou art waiting for me.
Holy and pure passes the moon on the sky,
Moist seem the stars born from the vault clear and high,
Longing thine eyes look from afar to divine,
Heaving thy breast, pensive thy head doth recline.
Corn-fields bright flooded with beams by the clouds steeply drifted,
Old cottage gables of thatch to the moonlight uplifted,
The tall wooden arm of the well in the wind softly grating,
And the shepherd-boy's pipe from the sheep-pen sad doina relating.
Tired with their toil, peasants come back from the field,
From the old church, labourer's comfort and shield,
Voices of bells thrill the whole sky high above;
Struck is my heart, trembling and burning with love.
Ah! very soon quietness steals over all,
Ah! very soon hasten shall I to thy call,
Under the acacia tree, there I shall sit the whole night,
Telling thee, love, thou art my only delight.