وَدَوحٍ مالَتِ الأَغصانُ مِنهُ

وَدَوحٍ مالَتِ الأَغصانُ مِنهُ

فَخِلتُ مُميلَها وَسَنَ العُيونِ

فَخِلتُ مُميلَها وَسَنَ العُيونِ

And a grove whose branches drooped—

A lonely, withering tree, whose boughs are bent with grief,

So I fancied the drowsiness of eyes had bent them.

I pass it, while the bashful whispering eyes of children

كَأَنِّي إِذ نَبَذتُ النَّومَ فيهِ

كَأَنِّي إِذ نَبَذتُ النَّومَ فيهِ

تَعَلَّقَ بِالذَّوائِبِ وَالغُصونِ

تَعَلَّقَ بِالذَّوائِبِ وَالغُصونِ

As though, when I cast off sleep within it,

Look at me, as though I left its restlessness to cling

It clung to the treetops and the boughs.

Upon its branches, in the arms of slumber sweetly bound.