خُذِ القلَمَ العالي إليك مُوقِّعاً

خِلالَ فُصولي بالّذي يَمْتري شُكْري

Take up the lofty pen, and let it sign

amid the sections of my work what will draw forth my thanks.

وأَجْرِ اليدَ البيضاءَ في صَفَحاتِها

لِيُعجَبَ من نَظْمي ونَثْرِكَ بالدُّرّ

And let your white hand course across their pages,

so one may marvel at my verse and your pearl-strewn prose.

فمِفتاحُ آمالي أنامِلُك الّتي

تَحُلُّ بها من مَطْلَبي عُقَدَ الدَّهْر

For your fingertips are the key to all my hopes;

with them you undo Time’s knots in all I seek.

وما أنا إلاّ سائرُ المدحِ فيكمُ

فما لي على أَبوابكمْ واقفَ الأَمر

I am but praise in motion among you—

why, then, does my affair stand still at your gates?

وقد كنتُ أَروَى والثِّمادُ مَوارِدي

فما ليَ أَظْما بعدَ قُرْبى منَ البحر

Once I drank my fill, though shallow pools were my watering places;

why should I thirst now, after drawing near the sea?