لَقَد صُبِّحَت بِالخَيرِ عَينٌ تَصَبَّحَت

بِوَجهِكِ يا مَعشوقُ في كُلِّ شارِقِ

A morning blessed with your face has dawned,

Greeted with goodness is the eye that awakens,

Illuminating every horizon, my beloved.

To the sight of your face, O beloved, at every rising sun.

مُقَرطَقَةٌ لَم يَحنِها سَحبُ ذَيلِها

وَلا نازَعَتها الريحُ فَضلَ البَنائِقِ

Untangled are her plaited locks,

Clad in a tunic, unbowed by the dragging weight of her train,

Unruffled by the winds her dress's trailing hem.

Nor has the wind wrestled with her over the fullness of her pleats.

تُشارِكُ في الصُنعِ النِساءَ وَسُلِّمَت

لَهُنَّ صُنوفُ الحُليِ غَيرَ المَناطِقِ

She shares in women's handicraft, but not their veils;

She shares in the nature of women, yet to them are surrendered

Jewels of every kind save crowns adorn her head.

All varieties of jewelry, save for the waist-sashes.

وَمَطمومَةٍ لَم تَتَّصِل بِذُؤابَةٍ

وَلَم تَعتَقِد بِالتاجِ فَوقَ المَفارِقِ

With kohl unsmeared, no tattoo on her wrist,

With hair shorn short, unconnected to any long braid,

No necklace round her slender throat encircled.

And not knotted with a diadem atop the partings.

كَأَنَّ مَخَطَّ الصُدغِ فَوقَ خُدودِها

بَقِيَّةُ أَنقاسٍ بِإِصبَعِ لائِقِ

As if the mole still glistened on her cheek

As though the tracing of the side-lock upon her cheeks

From a touch of his blessed finger fresh imprinted.

Were the remnant of ink upon the finger of a scribe.

نَدَتهُ بِماءِ المِسكِ حَتّى جَرى لَها

إِلى مُستَقَرٍّ بَينَ أُذنٍ وَعاتِقِ

Anointed was it with musk-scented water,

She moistened it with musk-water until it flowed down

Trickling down between her earlobe and her neck.

To a resting place between the ear and the shoulder.

غُلامٌ وَإِلّا فَالغُلامُ شَبيهُها

وَرَيحانُ دُنيا لَذَّةٌ لِلمُعانِقِ

A beardless youth - but had he facial down,

A boy—or if not, then the boy resembles her—

The very image of her he'd have resembled.

And the sweet basil of this world, a delight to the embrace.

تَجَمَّعَ فيها الشَكلُ وَالزَيُّ كُلَّهُ

فَلَيسَ يُوَفّي وَصفَها قَولُ ناطِقِ

In her all beauty and perfection lie combined.

In her, all beauty of form and costume is gathered,

No words of mine can do her justice, so I'll cease.

So that the speech of a speaker falls short of her description.