As the chorus of 'Mahanaim.' How beautiful were thy feet with sandals, O daughter of Nadib. The turnings of thy sides are as ornaments, Work of the hands of an artificer.
Thy waist is a basin of roundness, It lacketh not the mixture, Thy body a heap of wheat, fenced with lilies,
Thy two breasts as two young ones, twins of a roe,
Thy neck as a tower of the ivory, Thine eyes pools in Heshbon, near the gate of Bath-Rabbim, Thy face as a tower of Lebanon looking to Damascus,
Thy head upon thee as Carmel, And the locks of thy head as purple, The king is bound with the flowings!
How fair and how pleasant hast thou been, O love, in delights.
This thy stature hath been like to a palm, And thy breasts to clusters.
I said, 'Let me go up on the palm, Let me lay hold on its boughs, Yea, let thy breasts be, I pray thee, as clusters of the vine, And the fragrance of thy face as citrons,
And thy palate as the good wine — 'Flowing to my beloved in uprightness, Strengthening the lips of the aged!
I am my beloved's, and on me is his desire.
Come, my beloved, we go forth to the field,
We lodge in the villages, we go early to the vineyards, We see if the vine hath flourished, The sweet smelling-flower hath opened. The pomegranates have blossomed, There do I give to thee my loves;
The mandrakes have given fragrance, And at our openings all pleasant things, New, yea, old, my beloved, I laid up for thee!