وَظَبيٍ إِن أَطَلتُ بِهِ حَوازي

فَلَيسَ بِغَيرِ عَينَيهِ مَجازي

My gazelle, if I wander with him through meadows

Yet he has no eyes but for me, no other does he gaze on

رِداءُ شَبابِهِ رَطبُ الحَواشي

وَثَوبُ جَمالِهِ نَقشُ الطِرازِ

The dew on his youth is the meadows’ fringe

And the fabric of his beauty, embroidery of gold thread

يَفِرُّ مِنَ العِتابِ إِذا التَقَينا

كَما فَرَّ الجَبانُ مِن البِرازِ

He flees from reproach when we meet

As the coward flees from the spears