'Tis eve on the hillside, the bagpipes are distantly wailing, 
Flocks going homewards, and stars o'er the firmament sailing, 
Sound of the bubbling spring sorrow's legend narrating, 
And beneath a tall willow for me, dear one, you are waiting. 

The wandering moon up the heavens her journey is wending, 
Big-eyed you watch through the boughs her gold lantern ascending,  
Now over the dome of the sky all the planets are gleaming, 
And heavy your breast with its longing, your brow with its dreaming. 

Cornfields bright flooded with beams by the clouds steeply drifted, 
Old cottage gables of thatch to the moonlight uplifted, 
The tall wooden arm of the well in the wind softly grating, 
And the shepherd-boy's pipe from the sheep-pen sad "doina" relating. 

The peasants, their scythes on their backs, from their labour are coming, 
The sound of the "toaca" its summons more loudly is drumming, 
While the clang of the village church bell fills the evening entire, 
And with longing for you like a faggot my soul is on fire. 

O, soon will the village be silent and scarce a light burning, 
O, soon eager steps to the hillside again I'll be turning, 
And all the night long I will clasp you in love's hungry fashion, 
And in secret we'll tell to each other the tale of our passion. 

Till at last we will fall fast asleep neath the shade of that willow, 
Your lips drawn aside in a smile and your breast for my pillow, 
O, to live one such beautiful night all these wonders fulfilling 
And barter the rest of existence, who would not be willing?