Darker—his eyes, than wine,—Whiter—his teeth than milk!
Who hath woe? Who hath outcry of pain? Who hath contentions? Who hath complaining? Who hath needless wounds? Who hath dullness of eyes?
Binding, to the vine, his ass, And to the choice vine his ass’s colt, He hath washed in wine his raiment, And in the blood of grapes, his mantle:
Zebulon, by a haven of seas, shall he settle down,—Even he, by a haven of ships, With his utmost part upon b Zidon.