ومُدامَةٍ في الكاسِ تَحْسَبُ أنَّهَا

وَرْدٌ جَنَتْهُ رَاحَة الأكْمَامِ

A goblet of wine she mistakes for a rose

Plucked from the wrist where the perfume blows

صَاغَ المِزَاجُ لها حَبَاباً فاغْتَدَتْ

شَرَكَ العُقُولِ وحَيْرَةَ الأفْهامِ

Mixed by the senses till flushed with pride

She scorns all reason, bewitched by its tide