And there cometh a traveller to the rich man, And he spareth to take Of his own flock, and of his own herd, To prepare for the traveller Who hath come to him, And he taketh the ewe-lamb of the poor man, And prepareth it for the man Who hath come unto him.'
Till the day doth break forth, And the shadows have fled away, Turn, be like, my beloved, To a roe, or to a young one of the harts, On the mountains of separation!
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.