and among the foremost men of the time; he possessed polished virtues, consummate chapters, astonishing treatises, captivating compositions, and a body of verse that effaced the poetry of the moderns, weaving in it after the pattern of al-Maʿarrī—and of the pre-eminent masters who even eclipsed him(1).

I saw him as a young man: more than once he rose within the study circle of Imām al-Ḥaramayn and there composed weighty odes, pouring them forth at will—foam from the sea of his mind whenever we wished. Composition came easily to him; he could sustain a long breath, had prodigious powers of memorization, and in the midst of speaking would dart to fine points, striking events, and unusual deductions. He then set out for Iraq, remained there for a while, dragging his learning along by sheer resolve, until the elite recognized the perfection of his merit and the soundness of his nature. His reputation spread, his rank soared, and he won with the authorities both position and favor. Yet from his words there soon began to seep a kind of attachment to the caliphate, an invitation for people to follow his excellence, a claim to deserve the imamate. Satan’s whisperings laid their white eggs in his head and hatched, while pride lifted his nose high in the air. Circumstances thus compelled him to leave Baghdad; he returned to Hamadhān, where for a time he taught, benefited students, and continued to compose.

Among his poetry:

A slender-waisted beauty—never do I heed those who blame me for her, or who would spur me on by finding fault with her.(2)
I incline one of my eyes toward her whenever she appears, and with the other keep watch on the guardian who shadows her.
The talebearer has been careless, unaware that I have already taken from Sulaymā the portion my eyes desired.(3)

And of his verse:

Is it a star I see, O Saʿd, or a flame
lit by a soft-cheeked, fragrant girl?
Fair-skinned—should she speak among the clan or cast a glance,
ears and eyes divide their homage with the sun.