Some young fellows have now turned up,
Shouting: 'Why don't we be poets?'
Weep ye trees and weep ye boulders!
For the gems that they are penning.

True verse is God's inspiration,
It's no clotted cream for swilling,
Worry not, scent of the lily,
For by force is nought accomplished.

Pay attention, listen to me,
Let me tell you, if you're clever,
That these flowers are not easy,
They're not flags out in the pastures.

You can't understand a writer,
You don't know what he is saying,
Yet you sit there, trying to tell me
What it's like to be a poet.

God! their verse, where has it come from?
I must say, it is quite silly,
Oh Nezim, praise be upon you
For the jewelled words you've spoken.