It is the languishing ecstasy,
It is the loving fatigue,
It is all the shivers of the woods
Within the embrace of breezes,
The chorus of the little voices

Goes toward the grey treetops.

O the frail and fresh murmur!
It coos and whispers,
It seems like a gentle shout
That expires in the rough grass...
You would say, under the water, which eddies,
It rolls soundlessly on the stones.

This soul that laments
Moaning while sleeping
It’s ours, isn’t it?
Mine, say, and yours,
That exhales the humble anthem
Through this warm evening, so low?