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.

 ... 

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.

 ... 

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!

 ...