The Song of Songs, that is Solomon's.

Dark am I, and comely, daughters of Jerusalem, As tents of Kedar, as curtains of Solomon.

Declare to me, thou whom my soul hath loved, Where thou delightest, Where thou liest down at noon, For why am I as one veiled, By the ranks of thy companions?

While the king is in his circle, My spikenard hath given its fragrance.

A bundle of myrrh is my beloved to me, Between my breasts it lodgeth.

A cluster of cypress is my beloved to me, In the vineyards of En-Gedi!

Lo, thou art fair, my love, yea, pleasant, Yea, our couch is green,

As a lily among the thorns,

So is my friend among the daughters!

As a citron among trees of the forest, So is my beloved among the sons, In his shade I delighted, and sat down, And his fruit is sweet to my palate.

He hath brought me in unto a house of wine, And his banner over me is love,

His left hand is under my head, And his right doth embrace me.

The voice of my beloved! lo, this -- he is coming, Leaping on the mountains, skipping on the hills.

My beloved is like to a roe, Or to a young one of the harts. Lo, this -- he is standing behind our wall, Looking from the windows, Blooming from the lattice.

My dove, in clefts of the rock, In a secret place of the ascent, Cause me to see thine appearance, Cause me to hear thy voice, For thy voice is sweet, and thy appearance comely.

Seize ye for us foxes, Little foxes -- destroyers of vineyards, Even our sweet-smelling vineyards.

My beloved is mine, and I am his, Who is delighting among the lilies,

Who is this coming up from the wilderness, Like palm-trees of smoke, Perfumed with myrrh and frankincense, From every powder of the merchant?

Lo, his couch, that is Solomon's, Sixty mighty ones are around it, Of the mighty of Israel,

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,

Thy teeth as a row of the shorn ones That have come up from the washing, For all of them are forming twins, And a bereaved one is not among them.

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,

As the tower of David is thy neck, built for an armoury, The chief of the shields are hung on it, All shields of the mighty.

Thy two breasts are as two fawns, Twins of a roe, that are feeding among lilies.

Thou art all fair, my friend, And a blemish there is not in thee. Come from Lebanon, O spouse,

Thy lips drop honey, O spouse, Honey and milk are under thy tongue, And the fragrance of thy garments Is as the fragrance of Lebanon.

A garden shut up is my sister-spouse, A spring shut up -- a fountain sealed.

I am sleeping, but my heart waketh: The sound of my beloved knocking! 'Open to me, my sister, my friend, My dove, my perfect one, For my head is filled with dew, My locks with drops of the night.'

What is thy beloved above any beloved, O fair among women? What is thy beloved above any beloved, That thus thou hast adjured us?

My beloved is clear and ruddy, Conspicuous above a myriad!

His head is pure gold -- fine gold, His locks flowing, dark as a raven,

His eyes as doves by streams of water, Washing in milk, sitting in fulness.

His cheeks as a bed of the spice, towers of perfumes, His lips are lilies, dropping flowing myrrh,

His limbs pillars of marble, Founded on sockets of fine gold, His appearance as Lebanon, choice as the cedars.

His mouth is sweetness -- and all of him desirable, This is my beloved, and this my friend, O daughters of Jerusalem!

I am my beloved's, and my beloved is mine, Who is delighting himself among the lilies.

Fair art thou, my friend, as Tirzah, Comely as Jerusalem, Awe-inspiring as bannered hosts.

Turn round thine eyes from before me, Because they have made me proud. Thy hair is as a row of the goats, That have shone from Gilead,

Thy teeth as a row of the lambs, That have come up from the washing, Because all of them are forming twins, And a bereaved one is not among them.

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

One is my dove, my perfect one, One she is of her mother, The choice one she is of her that bare her, Daughters saw, and pronounce her happy, Queens and concubines, and they praise her.

Who is this that is looking forth as morning, Fair as the moon -- clear as the sun, Awe-inspiring as bannered hosts?'

As the chorus of 'Mahanaim.' How beautiful were thy feet with sandals, O daughter of Nadib. The turnings of thy sides are as ornaments, Work of the hands of an artificer.

Thy waist is a basin of roundness, It lacketh not the mixture, Thy body a heap of wheat, fenced with lilies,

Thy two breasts as two young ones, twins of a roe,

Thy neck as a tower of the ivory, Thine eyes pools in Heshbon, near the gate of Bath-Rabbim, Thy face as a tower of Lebanon looking to Damascus,

Thy head upon thee as Carmel, And the locks of thy head as purple, The king is bound with the flowings!

I said, 'Let me go up on the palm, Let me lay hold on its boughs, Yea, let thy breasts be, I pray thee, as clusters of the vine, And the fragrance of thy face as citrons,

And thy palate as the good wine -- 'Flowing to my beloved in uprightness, Strengthening the lips of the aged!

I am my beloved's, and on me is his desire.

Who doth make thee as a brother to me, Sucking the breasts of my mother? I find thee without, I kiss thee, Yea, they do not despise me,

His left hand is under my head, And his right doth embrace me.

Who is this coming from the wilderness, Hasting herself for her beloved? Under the citron-tree I have waked thee, There did thy mother pledge thee, There she gave a pledge that bare thee.

Set me as a seal on thy heart, as a seal on thine arm, For strong as death is love, Sharp as Sheol is jealousy, Its burnings are burnings of fire, a flame of Jah!

We have a little sister, and breasts she hath not, What do we do for our sister, In the day that it is told of her?

If she is a wall, we build by her a palace of silver. And if she is a door, We fashion by her board-work of cedar.

I am a wall, and my breasts as towers, Then I have been in his eyes as one finding peace.

My vineyard -- my own -- is before me, The thousand is for thee, O Solomon. And the two hundred for those keeping its fruit. O dweller in gardens!