مَا لِلشَّقَائِقِ إذْ أبْدَى الرُّبَى زَهَراً

مَا لِلشَّقَائِقِ إذْ أبْدَى الرُّبَى زَهَراً

يَفْتَرُّ عَنْ مبسمٍ كَالدُّرّ مُنْتَضَدِ

يَفْتَرُّ عَنْ مبسمٍ كَالدُّرّ مُنْتَضَدِ

What ails the anemones, when the hills have displayed flowers

What ails the anemones when the meadow dons attire

That smile, revealing a mouth like pearls arrayed in rows?

Of flowers that gleam like pearls in rows close set?

اسْوَدَّ بَاطِنُهَا مِنْ نُورِهَا حَسَداً

اسْوَدَّ بَاطِنُهَا مِنْ نُورِهَا حَسَداً

حَتَّى الشقَائِق لاَ تَخْلُو مِنَ الحسدِ

حَتَّى الشقَائِق لاَ تَخْلُو مِنَ الحسدِ

Their insides have blackened with envy of that radiance;

Their hearts grow black with envy of the light they bear

Even anemones are not free from envy.

Until the very anemones are tinged with jet.