مَا لِلشَّقَائِقِ إذْ أبْدَى الرُّبَى زَهَراً

يَفْتَرُّ عَنْ مبسمٍ كَالدُّرّ مُنْتَضَدِ

What ails the anemones when the meadow dons attire

Of flowers that gleam like pearls in rows close set?

اسْوَدَّ بَاطِنُهَا مِنْ نُورِهَا حَسَداً

حَتَّى الشقَائِق لاَ تَخْلُو مِنَ الحسدِ

Their hearts grow black with envy of the light they bear

Until the very anemones are tinged with jet.