To the thick woods, to the placid shade,
where we sang our hymn of love,
my soul always returns,
sad, tormented, in its distress!
Alas… maybe more faithfully, the fronds
will preserve the echo of my sighs:
or even, the branches, perhaps,
will conceal heights of my ravings!

O sweet night! O pale, mysterious stars,
O fragrances of the air! O spell cast by the roses!
It was you who troubled my soul, through your mysterious influence,
with new desires in a strange turmoil!
You, in the ecstatic silences of the gentle moonrise,
you, who made me weep, you, who made me love!

Eyes, deep and mystical, which first subdued me,
who cast the spell of your sad gaze?
Still in my heart, tremble your ardent flames;
I can still hear you, oh languorous sighs, oh fervent tones!
Ah! it was you, in the spell of the white moonrise,
you, who made me weep, you, who made me love.