مِنَ الدَنِفِ الَّذي يُمسي حَزيناً

وَبَينَ ضُلوعِهِ قَلبٌ مُصابُ

From the sad lute that grieves at eventide

With heart sore wounded and spirit troubled,

إِلى الخَودِ الَّتي سَلَبَت فُؤادي

فَأَمسى ما يَسوغُ لَهُ شَرابُ

To the cheek that hath robbed my heart of sleep

And made my tears flow in anguished rapture,

يَنامُ الهاجِعونَ وَنَومُ عَيني

إِذا هَجَعوا بُكاءٌ وَاِنتِحابُ

The sleepers slumber, but my eyes find rest

Only in weeping and sad lamenting,

فَلَو نَطَقَ الكِتابُ فَدَتكِ نَفسي

بَكى قَلَقاً ليَرحَمَني الكِتابُ

Could letters speak, then on your book, my soul,

Would weep unrestrained, and win your mercy.