Lo, thou art fair, my friend, lo, thou art fair, Thine eyes are doves behind thy veil, Thy hair as a row of the goats That have shone from mount Gilead,

As a thread of scarlet are thy lips, And thy speech is comely, As the work of the pomegranate is thy temple behind thy veil,

Awake, O north wind, and come, O south, Cause my garden to breathe forth, its spices let flow, Let my beloved come to his garden, And eat its pleasant fruits!

The watchmen who go round about the city, Found me, smote me, wounded me, Keepers of the walls lifted up my veil from off me.

As the work of the pomegranate is thy temple behind thy veil.

Unto a garden of nuts I went down, To look on the buds of the valley, To see whither the vine had flourished, The pomegranates had blossomed --

The companions are attending to thy voice, Cause me to hear. Flee, my beloved, and be like to a roe,