قد مَرِنت قلوبُنَا على النّوى

فما تَشكّى من أليمِ الوَجْدِ

Our hearts have become accustomed to ardor,

So they make no moan over the pain of passion.

كأنّ حُسنَ صَبْرِهَا على لَظَى

أشواقِها حُسنُ اصطبارِ الزّندِ

As though the beauty of their patience towards agony

Were the patience of steel towards flint's blows.