نَزِّه صَبوحَكَ عَن مَقالِ العُذَّلِ

ما العَيشُ إِلّا في الرَحيقِ السَلسَلِ

Grace your morn with a mind aloof from spite's decrees,

Raise your morning draught above the words of critics,

Since life is naught but sipping the smooth subtle breeze.

For there is no life save in the smooth, pure wine.

ما العَيشُ إِلّا أَن تُباكِرَ شُربَها

صَفراءَ زُفَّت مِن قُرى قُطرَبُّلِ

Life is naught but drinking it betimes at break of morn,

There is no life save in hastening to drink it,

Golden, distilled midst the homesteads Qatrabul loved.

A golden vintage, ushered from the villages of Qutrabbul.

تُهدي لِقَلبِ المُستَكينِ تَخَيُّلاً

وَتُلينُ قَلبَ البازِخِ المُتَخَيِّلِ

For the stricken's heart it pictures a dream's caprice,

It grants the submissive heart a sense of pride,

And softens the aloof's obdurate fantasies.

And softens the heart of the arrogant and high.

وَكَأَنَّ شارِبَها لِطيبِ نَسيمِها

وافَت مَشارِبُهُ سَحابُ قَرَنفُلِ

As if its drinker through its sweet breath's waft,

As if the one who drinks it, from its sweet aroma,

Met at his sipping places clouds of carnations.

Found his cup engulfed by clouds of cloves.

وَلَقَد دَخَلتُ عَلى الكَواعِبِ حُسَّراً

فَلَقينَني بِتَبَسُّمٍ وَتَهَلُّلِ

Once through the damsels' curtains I thrust me fain,

I once entered upon young maidens, unveiled and at ease,

Smiles and bright glances met me in that bower.

And they met me with smiles and jubilation.

فَأَصَبتُ مِن طُرَفِ الحَديثِ لَذاذَةً

وَأَصَبنَها مِنّي وَلَمّا أَجهَلِ

From the talk I chanced on a savour of delight,

I savored the delightful witticisms of our talk,

And the speaker knew of me — I knew naught of her plight.

As they did from me, yet I did not act the fool.