Silver poplar, linden, birch...
  The moon unveils itself over the water...

Like long tresses combed in the evening breeze,
The scent of summer nights perfumes the dark lake.
The great perfumed lake shines like a mirror,

  My oar falls and rises again,
  My boat glides in the dream.

  My boat glides in the sky,
  On the immaterial lake...

 ... 

  Rhythmically, with eyes closed,
  Row, O my heart, your indolence 
  In broad strokes, slow and languid.

Over there the moon listens, leaning on the hillside,
To the silence that the boat exhales as it glides...
Three large freshly cut lilies die on my mantel.

Towards your lips, O voluptuous and pale Night,
Is it their soul, is it my soul that is exhaled?
Tresses of silvery nights combed into long reeds...

  Like the moon on the waters,
  Like the oar on the swells,
  My soul unveils itself in sobs!