Lo, thou art fair, my friend, Lo, thou art fair, thine eyes are doves!

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

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.

For lo, the winter hath passed by, The rain hath passed away -- it hath gone.

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,

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,