قَد حَبا طِفلُ الصَباحِ

بَينَ دَياتِ الرِياحِ

The child of dawn has scattered

Among the gusts of wind his mirth;

فَرِدِ العَيشَ المُصَفّى

في حِياضِ الإِصطِباحِ

So drink the wine of life made pure

Within the gardens of rebirth.

لا تُعرِ سَمعَكَ إِلّا

كُلَّ عَيّارِ المِراحِ

Attend no more to wail and sigh

Of every troubadour of grief,

وَإِذا ماتَ سُرورٌ

فَاِحيِهِ بِالإِقتِراحِ

And if a joy should fade and die

Revive it with imagination’s leaf.