مَلِلتُ الكَتابةَ دهراً طويلاً

عزَفتُ وما كنتُ أرتَادُها

I grew weary of writing for a long time

I gave it up, though it was not my habit

ومن مِحنَة النَّفسِ تُفسِدُها

بمَا لا يُنَاط به سَعدُها

And the soul's suffering corrupts it

With what does not fulfill its happiness

تُريكَ المعَاليَ تاجا على

مفَارِقَ لا حلمَ يَعتَادُها

It shows you the high ideals as a crown on

One who parts, not dreaming to aspire to them

ولَو أنصفَ الدهرُ بينَ الورَى

لسالمَتِ النَّاسَ اضدَادُها

If fate dealt justly among mankind

Its opposites would reconcile them

لهَان عَلى النَّفسِ حُسَّادُها

لهَان على النَّاس إنجَادُها

But envy overcomes the soul

And attacking others becomes its habit

ومَا دامت النَّفسُ مُختَارة

فيا شَرَّ من يَمطِي قُصَّادُهَا

As long as the soul has free choice

What an evil mount to ride is its caprice