وَرَاقِصَةٍ بِالسحرِ في حَرَكاتِها

تُقيمُ بِهِ وَزْنَ الغِناءِ عَلى حَدّ

And a dancer at dawn with her movements

Sets the rhythm of song to a measure

مُنَغّمَةٌ أَلفاظَهَا بِتَرنُّمٍ

كَسا مَعبِداً مِن عِزِّهِ ذِلَّةَ العَبدِ

Her words sung with a chant

Like a robe worn with pride brought low by a slave

تَدوسُ قُلوبَ السامِعينَ برخْصَةٍ

بها لَقَطَتْ ما لِلُّحون مِنَ العَدِّ

She treads on listeners' hearts with ease

Catching whatever songs hold of count

بِقدٍّ يموتُ الغُصْنُ من حَرَكاتِهِ

سكوناً وأين الغُصْنُ من بَرَهِ القدّ

With a nape that would slay the branch with its motions

Still while the branch is far from the nape’s grace

وَتَحسَبُها عمَّا تُشيرُ بِأَنمُلٍ

إِلى ما يُلاقي كُلَّ عُضوٍ مِنَ الوَجدُ

You’d think her fingers’ hints and signs

To what each limb feels of rapturous joy

بِنا لا بِها ما تَشتَكي مِن جَوَى الهَوى

وأَدمُعِ أَشواقٍ مُخَدِّدَةِ الخَدّ

But not her, what she complains of love’s ardour

And tears of yearning hollowing the cheek