My beloved came into his garden; The feast was ready, fragrance filled the room. I slept, but still my heart remained awake; His voice was knocking softly at the door. He called me sister, love, and undefiled one; The night had covered him with dew. I waited, slow to rise from where I rested; When I opened, he had passed from view. My hands were wet with myrrh upon the handle; My soul went out when I remembered him. I sought him, but I could not find him; I called, but no reply returned. The watchmen struck me while I wandered; They took my veil and left me hurt. Daughters of Jerusalem, if you should find him, Tell him I am sick with love. What makes your beloved more than others? Why does your longing carry such a name? He is radiant, strong among ten thousand; His head is gold, his hair as dark as ravens. His eyes are doves beside the quiet waters; His cheeks and lips are gardens filled with spice. His hands are formed like gold around bright jewels; His body stands like ivory set with blue. His legs are pillars resting upon marble; His speech is sweetness, every part desired. This is my beloved and my closest friend; He is altogether lovely.