Apples of gold in imagery of silver, Is the word spoken at its fit times.

The vine hath been dried up, And the fig-tree doth languish, Pomegranate, also palm, and apple-tree, All trees of the field have withered, For dried up hath been joy from the sons of men.

Keep me as the apple, the daughter of the eye; In shadow of Thy wings thou dost hide me.

As a citron among trees of the forest, So is my beloved among the sons, In his shade I delighted, and sat down, And his fruit is sweet to my palate.

I said, 'Let me go up on the palm, Let me lay hold on its boughs, Yea, let thy breasts be, I pray thee, as clusters of the vine, And the fragrance of thy face as citrons,

Who is this coming from the wilderness, Hasting herself for her beloved? Under the citron-tree I have waked thee, There did thy mother pledge thee, There she gave a pledge that bare thee.