7 As the work of the pomegranate 'is' thy temple behind thy veil.
8 Sixty are queens, and eighty concubines, And virgins without number.
9 One is my dove, my perfect one, One she 'is' of her mother, The choice one she 'is' of her that bare her, Daughters saw, and pronounce her happy, Queens and concubines, and they praise her.
10 'Who 'is' this that is looking forth as morning, Fair as the moon -- clear as the sun, Awe-inspiring as bannered hosts?'
11 Unto a garden of nuts I went down, To look on the buds of the valley, To see whither the vine had flourished, The pomegranates had blossomed --
Share this page