وما رَوضةٌ بالحَزْنِ حاكَ لها النَّدى
بُروداً مِنَ الموْشِيِّ حُمرَ الشقائقِ
No meadow on the upland, for which the dew has woven
embroidered robes red with anemones,
يُقيمُ الدُّجى أَعناقَها ويُمليها
شُعاعُ الضُّحى المُستَنُّ في كُلِّ شارقِ
whose necks the darkness lifts and whose life is prolonged by
the morning light streaming across every eastern horizon,
إذا ضاحَكَتها الشَّمسُ تَبكي بأعيُنٍ
مُكلَّلةِ الأَجفانِ صُفْرِ الحَمالِقِ
that weeps with eyes when the sun smiles upon it,
their lids garlanded and their pupils yellow,
حكَتْ أَرضُها لونَ السَّماءِ وزانَها
نُجومٌ كأمثالِ النُّجومِ الخوافِقِ
whose ground mirrors the sky’s color and is adorned
with stars like the twinkling stars above,
بأطيبَ نَشراً من خلائقِهِ الَّتي
لها خَضَعتْ في الحُسنِ زُهرُ الخلائقِ
is sweeter in fragrance than his virtues, before which
the fairest of creatures bow in beauty.
Sol 6