Who will show me her of the dyed fingers

Who will show me her of the dyed fingers? Who will show me her of the honeyed tongue?
She is one of the girls with swelling breasts who guard their honour, tender, virgin, and beautiful,
Full moons over branches: they fear no waning.
In a garden of my body's country is a dove perched on a bán bough,
Dying of desire, melting with passion, because that which befell me bath befallen her;
Mourning for a mate, blaming Time, who shot her unerringly, as he shot me.
Parted from a neighbour and far from a home! Alas, in my time of severance, for my time of union!
Who will bring me her who is pleased with my torment? I am helpless because of that with which she is pleased.