and she saith unto the servant, 'Who is this man who is walking in the field to meet us?' and the servant saith, 'It is my lord;' and she taketh the veil, and covereth herself.

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,

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,

The watchmen who go round about the city, Found me, smote me, wounded me, Keepers of the walls lifted up my veil from off me.

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

Take millstones, and grind flour, Remove thy veil, draw up the skirt, Uncover the leg, pass over the floods.