My beloved is like a roe or a young hart: behold, he standeth behind our wall, he looketh forth at the windows, shewing himself through the lattice.

Until the day break, and the shadows flee away, turn, my beloved, and be thou like a roe or a young hart upon the mountains of Bether.

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.

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.

Make haste, my beloved, and be thou like to a roe or to a young hart upon the mountains of spices.