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

For behold, the winter is past, The rain is over, it is gone:

The fig-tree melloweth her winter figs, And the vines in bloom give forth their fragrance. Arise, my love, my fair one, and come away!

Thy lips, my spouse, drop as the honeycomb; Honey and milk are under thy tongue; And the smell of thy garments is like the smell of Lebanon.

His left hand would be under my head, And his right hand embrace me.

Who is this that cometh up from the wilderness, Leaning upon her beloved? I awoke thee under the apple-tree: There thy mother brought thee forth; There she brought thee forth that bore thee.