قالوا وَقَد أَكثَروا في حَبِّهِ عَذَلي

لَو لَم تَهِم بِمُذالِ القَدرِ مُبتَذَلِ

They blamed me and accused me much of loving him,

As if I had not been destined for humiliation.

فَقُلتُ لَو أَنَّ أَمري في الصَبابَةِ لي

لَاِختَرتُ ذاكَ وَلكِن لَيسَ ذلِكَ لي

I said, had it been up to my youthful passion,

I would have chosen that, but it was not up to me.

في كُلِّ قَلبٍ غَريزاتٍ مُدلَّلَةٌ

لِلحُسنِ وَالحُسنُ مَلكٌ حَيثُ حَلَّ وَلي

In every heart there are spoiled tendencies

To beauty, and beauty reigns wherever it settles.

عُلِّقتُهُ حَبَبِيَّ الثَغرِ عاطِرَهُ

أَلمى المُقَبِّلِ أَحوى ساحِرَ المُقَلِ

I hung him, the fragrance of my delicious mouth,

Tempting the kisser, more magic than a charm.

إِذا تَأَمَّلتَهُ أَعطاكَ مُلتَفِتاً

ما شِئتَ مِن لَحَظاتِ الشادِنِ الغَزِلِ

When you look upon him, he gives you, turning,

Whatever you wish of the amorous glances of the fawn.

هَيهاتِ أَبغي سِواهُ في الهَوى بَدَلاً

أُخرى اللَيالي وَهَل في الحُبِّ مِن بَدَلِ

Alas! Would I seek other than him for love?

The nights pass by—and is there any substitute for love?

أَما يُعابُ عَلَيهِ شغلُ راحَتِهِ

مَن يُحسِنُ الفَرقَ بَينَ الحَليِ وَالعَطَلِ

Is he blamed that pleasure keeps him occupied?

Who can distinguish properly between ornament and leisure?

غُزَيِّلٌ لَم تَزَل في الغَزلِ جائِلَةً

بَنانُهُ جَوَلانَ الفِكرِ في الغَزَلِ

A gazelle, you have not ceased being artful in love,

Your fingers roaming in thought over love.

جَذلانُ تَلعَبُ بِالمِحواكِ أَنمُلُهُ

عَلى السَدى لَعِبَ الأَيّامِ بِالدُوَلِ

A fawn playing with the spindle, his fingers

Sporting with the pole on which the days spin.

ما إِن يَني تَعِبَ الأَطرافِ مُشتَغِلاً

أَفديهِ مِن تَعِبِ الأَطرافِ مُشتَغِلِ

No sooner does fatigue visit his limbs, busily working,

Than I ransom him from the fatigue of busily working limbs,

جَذباً بِكَفَّيهِ أَو فَحصاً بِأَخمَصِهِ

تَخَبُّطَ الظَبيِ في أَشراكِ مُحتَبِلِ

Whether tugging with his palms or feeling with his toes—

The struggling of the gazelle in cleverly set snares.