وَلا وَالهَوى ما الإِلفُ زارَ عَلى النَوى

يَجوبُ إِلَيَّ اللَيلَ في البَلَدِ القَفرِ

Nor is it love when familiarity no longer dwells in the abode of intimacy,

Yet it roams to me in the night in the desolate country,

وَلَكِنَّهُ طَيفٌ أَقامَ مِثالَهُ

لِعَينَيَّ في نَومي خَواطِرُ مِن فِكري

But it is a phantom that presents its image

To my eyes in my sleep - thoughts from my reflections.