نَهيتَ أَخا العِرفانِ وَالزّهدِ وَالتّقى

عَنِ المَدحِ سَمعاً إِنَّني لَسميعُ

You forbade the brother of knowledge, asceticism, and piety

From praise, though I listened. I am obedient,

وَلَكنّني لَم أَستَطِعْ مَنعَ بُلبلٍ

يُغرِّدُ في مَدحٍ وأنّى يُطيعُ

But I could not prevent the nightingale

That sings in praise—how could it obey?

بَلابلُ شِعري في مَديحِكَ غرَّدت

وَكُلُّ زَمانِ المَدحِ فيكَ رَبيعُ

The nightingales of my poetry sang in praising you.

For you, all seasons of praise are spring.