لقد فَتنت نَبتٌ في الظرف والندَّى

بمقلةِ رِيمٍ فاترِ الطرفِ أحورِ

A sprig enchanted in a vase with dew

Of languid eyelids and bashful glance obscure

وشدوٍ يَروقُ السامعينَ ويملأ ال

قلوبَ سروراً مُونقٍ مُتخيرِ

Whose singing fills with joy attentive ears

And hearts with gentle, chosen bliss galore

فأصبحَ في فخّ الهوَى متقنّصاً

عزيزٌ على إخوانه ابنُ المُدبّرِ

Thus caught in passion’s snare made garmented

A jewel to brothers, planter’s treasure pure

ولم تَدرِ ما يلقَى بها ولو انّها

دَرت روَّحت من حَرّهِ المُتَسعّرِ

Unknowing what awaited her, though had she known,

She would have fled his searing, raging lure

وذا بها صَبٌّ ونبتٌ خليّةٌ

ومشغولةٌ عنه بوجهِ مُظفّرِ

While vines and leaves and blossoms her surround

Distracting her with many a conquest sure

ولو أَنصفت نَبتٌ لما عدَلت بهِ

سواهُ وحازت حسنَ مرأى ومَخبرِ

If but the sprig were just it would esteem

None other, claiming beauty seen and heard