1. The cooing dove in the branches of the oaks stirred me,
I know not why I grieved for what was between us and why I lamented.

2. Weeping for his love after separation,
Or sad for the tryst before it comes to pass.

3. He calls his dove while the birds slumber,
Yet I did not sleep a night nor slumber.

4. Clad in green silk, his shoulders adorned,
His train scented of musk as it trails behind.

5. His neck is collared over his doublet,
With violets and clover intertwined.

6. As if he were scented with rich perfume,
Camphor emanating from beneath his clothes.

7. His yellow eyes gleam as if cut
From carnelian stones of purest hue.

8. His ruddy legs seem as if made
From unbroken coral that expands in view.

9. He complained of the tryst and wept fearing sadness,
Throwing his pain amongst his sighing companions.

10. The wind makes him sway, lowering then raising him,
Lowering while calling, raising while lamenting.

11. As if he were a monk atop a monastery
Reciting psalms as the morning star rises.