Behold, thou art fair, my love; Behold, thou art fair; Thou hast doves' eyes Within thy locks: Thy hair is as a flock of goats, That appear from mount Gilead.
I sleep, but my heart waketh: It is the voice of my beloved that knocketh, saying, Open to me, my sister, my love, My dove, my undefiled: For my head is filled with dew, And my locks with the drops of the night.