يا أسفاً للربيع يذهب بالورد

فلا تجتليه أعيننا

Alas, for Spring that takes the roses hence,

So we no more their loveliness may see.

وللصبا تنطوي صحائفه

ولم يزل نشرها يفاوحنا

For Youth folds up his gilded documents

And still their opening brings new joy to me.

وأين لا أين بلبل غرد

كان يغني على الغصون لنا

Where, where's the Nightingale that singing flew

Among the boughs and trilled his song for us?

غبا فهل عند بعضكم خبر

وهل ترى ينقضي تساؤلنا

He's gone, if news of him you chance to do,

And will our questioning now useless thus?