Tell me, thou loved of my soul! Where wilt thou pasture thy flock? Where wilt thou let them recline at noon? For why should I be as one that wrappeth a veil about her, by the flocks of thy companions?

HELo! thou art beautiful, my fair one, Lo! thou art beautiful, Thine eyes, are doves, from behind thy veil, - Thy hair, is like a flock of goats, which are reclining on the sides of Mount Gilead:

Like a cord of crimson, are thy lips, and, thy mouth, is lovely, - Like a slice of pomegranate, are thy temples, behind thy veil:

SHEAwake, O north wind, and come in, thou south, Fan my garden - its balsams, will flow out, - Let my beloved enter his garden, and eat his precious fruits.

Like a slice of pomegranate, are thy temples, from behind thy veil: