وَمَدامَةٍ يَبدو إِلَيكَ جَنينُها

وَمَدامَةٍ يَبدو إِلَيكَ جَنينُها

وَعَلَيهِ تاجٌ لَم يَصُغهُ صائِغُ

وَعَلَيهِ تاجٌ لَم يَصُغهُ صائِغُ

And a wine whose unborn child appears to you,

A glass that seems full to you, though its inside

And upon it is a crown no goldsmith has fashioned.

Bears a crown no craftsman has ever forged.

راحٌ لَها مِن ريحِها الشَرَكُ الَّذي

راحٌ لَها مِن ريحِها الشَرَكُ الَّذي

لَولاهُ لَم يُصَدِ السُرورُ الرائِغُ

لَولاهُ لَم يُصَدِ السُرورُ الرائِغُ

Wine, whose fragrance holds the snare

It has a respite from its own scent which,

Without which elusive joy would not be caught.

Were it not for that, joy would not be contained.

تَخفى لِفَرطِ صَفائِها فَكَأَنَّما

تَخفى لِفَرطِ صَفائِها فَكَأَنَّما

إِبريقُها المَلآنُ مِنها فارِغُ

إِبريقُها المَلآنُ مِنها فارِغُ

Its sheer clarity hides it, as though

It hides, for its great clarity, as though

Its pitcher, full of it, were empty.

Its overflowing goblet were empty.