وَدَوحٍ مالَتِ الأَغصانُ مِنهُ

فَخِلتُ مُميلَها وَسَنَ العُيونِ

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

I pass it, while the bashful whispering eyes of children

كَأَنِّي إِذ نَبَذتُ النَّومَ فيهِ

تَعَلَّقَ بِالذَّوائِبِ وَالغُصونِ

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

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