وَما الشِعرُ إِلّا السَيفُ يَنبو وَحَدُّهُ

وَما الشِعرُ إِلّا السَيفُ يَنبو وَحَدُّهُ

حُسامٌ وَيَمضي وَهوَ لَيسَ بِذي حَدِّ

حُسامٌ وَيَمضي وَهوَ لَيسَ بِذي حَدِّ

And poetry is but a sword: it glances off, though its edge

What but a sword, that starts forth naked and rough,

Is keen; and it cuts through, though it has no edge.

Polished and keen, and no sword but will rust.

وَلَو كانَ بِالإِحسانِ يُرزَقُ شاعِرٌ

وَلَو كانَ بِالإِحسانِ يُرزَقُ شاعِرٌ

لَأَجدى الَّذي يُكدي وَأَكدى الَّذي يُجدي

لَأَجدى الَّذي يُكدي وَأَكدى الَّذي يُجدي

And if a poet were rewarded for excellence,

Were poets content with good deeds for their fare,

The one who goes unrewarded would prosper, and the one who prospers would go unrewarded.

Those who toil and moil would be better off there.