My Beloved is like a roe or a young hart. Behold, He stands behind our wall, He looks forth at the windows, peering from the lattice.

Until when does the day blow, and the shadows flee away? Turn, my Beloved, and be like a gazelle, or a young deer, the stag, on the mountains of Bether.

Hurry, my Beloved, and be like a gazelle, or a young deer, the stag, on the mountains of spices.