Monday in Whitsun Week

I sleep, my heart awaketh,
''Tis my Beloved's voice.
He knocketh at the casement,
And bids my soul rejoice.

I rose up, and I opened
To my Beloved one.
My hands dropt myrrh upon the lock,
But my Beloved was gone.

daughters of Jerusalem!
I charge you, where ye rove,
If ye, my Best-beloved, find.
Say I am sick of love.

Chiefest among ten thousand.
The fairest of the Mr,
His head like gold is glorious.
Like clouds His raven hair.

His eyes like doves' are gentle.
His cheeks are as sweet flowers.
His lips drop myrrh like lilies.
His hands like golden hours.

His body like bright ivory
With sapphires overlaid.
His limbs like marble pillars
In golden sockets stay'd:

His countenance as Lebanon,
His mouth as cedars moved,
Yea! altogether lovely;
This, this is my Beloved!

This is my Friend, if Him ye find
Wherever your footsteps rove.
Say, daughters of Jerusalem,
That I am sick of love.