My sister, my bride, you are like a garden locked up, like a walled-in spring, a closed-up fountain.
Your limbs are like an orchard of pomegranates with all the best fruit, filled with flowers and nard,
nard and saffron, calamus, and cinnamon, with trees of incense, myrrh, and aloes -- all the best spices.
You are like a garden fountain -- a well of fresh water flowing down from the mountains of Lebanon.
Awake, north wind. Come, south wind. Blow on my garden, and let its sweet smells flow out. Let my lover enter the garden and eat its best fruits.