Over there, towards the west, the sky is all in gold;
Across the empty meadows where the trail descends
Wafts the penetrating scent of cut hay,
And it is the poignant hour when the earth falls asleep.

Weary from bowing, all day, my fevered brow,
As one sets down a burden, I've left home.
I thirst for a grand line and a wide horizon,
And before me stretches the twilit plain.

A sweet solemnity floats in the air,
My chest swells with the harsh wind that passes;
And my heart, it seems, grows with the expanse,
For the infinite plain is like the sea.

The scythe of the reapers has passed over the fields,
And rest follows the long days' labors;
Sometimes a plow, forgotten in the fields,
Emerges, like an arm upraised, from the lonely furrows.

Far off sounds the Angelus, and, simple in its duty,
The land listens to the pure bell ringing in the sky,
And like a humble old woman in her homespun dress
Seems to murmur its evening prayer.

The night in the east pours out its fine ash;
Of the setting sun only a bar of fire lingers;
And in the darkness that grows little by little 
The whiteness of the path can barely be made out.

Then everything sinks and subsides into the great unity.
The darkened sky meets the vast plain ...
Listen! a great sigh traverses the silence ...
And see, the heart of the day has come to rest!

And my soul has trembled at feeling so alone, 
And is all at once relieved to find over there,
Enormous and pink all over in its lilac halo, 
The moon rising above a haystack.