Translation:Twilight (Silva-2)

Tableau mistérieux que la vue offre à la pensée.

CHARLES NODIER

It is the mysterious hour in which the laborer With the bell resounding from Angelus Good-bye to the dying day, Says the jeering bell, In his little white house, walking slowly humbly he goes home. It is the hour in which the clouds from the west ring the evening with fire, in which the sun of the dead illuminates the meadows and the forests, And the angel of evening drives to God mute prayers, It is the hour in which from the lakes the mists without colors come, Like from the dark depths of the spirit the choruses of visions In which through fairy tales or stories The protecting elves change the rooms of children, It is the hour of the sweestest harmony and of mystical voices, In which through clouds and mists, the nervous soul returns To those happy days of infancy that passed quickly, It is the hour in which the breeze between the trees has vague words, It is the hour in which life is sleepy from night's kiss. Crepúsculo2