A nightingale in a dark grove

meets the sun.

The wind is blowing softly;

The steppes and fields are dreaming;

Between the ravines above the ponds

The willows are green;

The gardens are bent down;

The poplars are free

They stand like watchmen,

Talking in the field.

And all that, the whole country,

Is full of beauty,

It's green, it's washed

With early dew

It washes itself, it beautifies itself,

And the sun rises

And there is no end to it,

And there is no end.