In the Night Fields They Sing. . . In the night fields they sing.
Mist veils the campfires' gleam.
Song is a joyous sorrow. Like rivulets the voices, And from the bushes, from the silvered clearings stream Ballads like small bells, ballads that chime, rejoicing. In the night fields they sing. In the night fields they sing. Echoing through the night, Like fans their voices rise to the stars, pearly-crying, Sing louder, friends.