في كَفِّهِ خَيزَرانٌ نَشرُه عَبِقٌ

مِن كَفِّ أَروَعَ في عِرنينِه شَمَمُ

In his hand a bouquet whose fragrance spreads

From the palm of the most beautiful in his time I smelled

يُغضي حَياء وَيُغضى مِن مهابَتِهِ

فَما يُكَلَّمُ إِلا حينَ يَبتَسِمُ

He lowers his gaze in shyness and is made to lower it in awe

So he speaks not unless he smiles