يا أسفاً للربيع يذهب بالورد

يا أسفاً للربيع يذهب بالورد

فلا تجتليه أعيننا

فلا تجتليه أعيننا

Alas for spring, carrying the roses away!

Alas, for Spring that takes the roses hence,

So our eyes behold them no more.

So we no more their loveliness may see.

وللصبا تنطوي صحائفه

وللصبا تنطوي صحائفه

ولم يزل نشرها يفاوحنا

ولم يزل نشرها يفاوحنا

And for youth, whose pages fold shut,

For Youth folds up his gilded documents

And still their fragrance wafts toward us.

And still their opening brings new joy to me.

وأين لا أين بلبل غرد

وأين لا أين بلبل غرد

كان يغني على الغصون لنا

كان يغني على الغصون لنا

And where—nay, where—is the tuneful nightingale

Where, where's the Nightingale that singing flew

That used to sing upon the branches for us?

Among the boughs and trilled his song for us?

غبا فهل عند بعضكم خبر

غبا فهل عند بعضكم خبر

وهل ترى ينقضي تساؤلنا

وهل ترى ينقضي تساؤلنا

It has vanished; has any of you news of it?

He's gone, if news of him you chance to do,

And do you think our questioning will ever end?

And will our questioning now useless thus?