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.

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

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

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

This thy stature hath been like to a palm, And thy breasts to clusters.

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.