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.