يا مَن لِلُقياهُ نَقشٌ مِن بَشاشَتِهِ

وَمَن لِأَلفاظِهِ طُرزٌ مِنَ المَلَقِ

O you whose face shows traces of his cheerfulness

And whose words have forms of wit

أَنتَ الغَمامَ الَّذي يَمضي بِوابِلِهِ

يَهُزُّ عَطفَيهِ بَينَ النَورِ وَالوَرَقِ

You are the cloud that passes with its rain

Shaking its sides between light and foliage

فَلا تَقَشَّعُ مَرجُوَّ الحَياةِ فَقَد

طَفَّحتَ أَودِيَتي مِن سَيبِكَ الغَدِقِ

So the hoped for spring of life does not diminish

You have made my valleys overflow from your pouring rain