I sleep, but my heart is awake: the voice of my kinsman knocks at the
door, saying, Open, open to me, my companion, my sister, my dove, my
perfect one: for my head is filled with dew, and my locks with the
drops of the night. I have put off my coat; how shall I put it on? I
have washed my feet, how shall I defile them? My kinsman put forth his
hand by the hole of the door, and my belly moved for him. I rose up to
open to my kinsman; my hands dropped myrrh, my fingers choice myrrh, on
the handles of the lock. I opened to my kinsman; my kinsman was gone:
my soul failed at his speech: I sought him, but found him not; I called
him, but he answered me not. The watchman that go their rounds in the
city found me, they smote me, they wounded me; the keepers of the walls
took away my veil from me. I have charged you, O daughters, by the
powers and the virtues of the field: if ye should find my kinsman, what
are ye to say to him?...? That I am wounded with love.