His eyes are darker than wine, and his teeth are whiter than milk.
He tethers his donkey to the vine, his donkey’s foal to the choicest stem. In wine he washes his garments, his robe in the blood of grapes.
“Zebulun shall dwell by the seashore; he will be a haven for ships, and his flank shall rest on Sidon.
Who scream? Who shout? Who have strife? Who have anxiety? Who have wounds for nothing? Who have bleary eyes?