لَقَد كدت تَبكي ان تَغَنَّت حمامَة

عَلى رَأدَة الاِفنانِ ناعِمَة الاِصل

You nearly wept whenever a dove began to sing,

upon a tree of supple boughs, tender at the root;

تَهزّ بِها الريح الضَعيفَة غُصنَها

مِراراً فَتُدني فِرعها ثُمَّ تَستَعلي

the gentle wind sways its branch with her upon it,

again and again—it dips its tip, then rises high—

بِهاتِفَة لا تَبرح الدَهر والِهاً

عَلى اِثر الف او تَنوح عَلى شَكل

a calling dove, forever remaining distraught

in the wake of a mate, or mourning one of her kind.