مُذ قيلَ هَذا بِيتٌ غوتَه زُرتُهُ

إِذ كانَ لِلشُعَراءِ كَعبَةَ قاصِد

When it was said, “This is Goethe’s house,” I visited it—

For poets it was a Kaaba for the seeker.

هَذا أَميرُ الشِعرِ عِندَ قَبيلِهِ

مِنهُ لِجيدِ الدَهرِ عِقدُ فَرائِد

This is the prince of poetry among his people;

From him, for the neck of Time, a necklace of peerless pearls.

طَأَطَأتُ رَأسَ قَريحَتي في بابِهِ

وَلَكُم رَأَت عَتَباتِهِ مِن ساجِد

I bowed the head of my poetic gift at his door—

And how many a prostrate visitor have his thresholds seen!

إِن لَم يَكُن مِن أُمَّتي وَعَشيرَتي

فَالناسُ في الآدابِ أُمَّةُ واحِد

If he is not of my nation and my clan,

Then people, in literature, are one nation.

أَو فاتَنا نَسَبٌ يَؤلَفُ بَينَنا

أَدَبٌ أَقَمناهُ مَقامَ الوالِد

Or if a lineage that might unite us has eluded us,

We have set literature in the place of a father.