“Open to me, my sister, my dove, my undefiled! For my head is filled with dew.”
But a charmed numbness has suddenly taken possession of Sulamith’s body. She wants to rise, and can not; wants to move her hand, and can not. And, without understanding what is taking place with her, she whispers, gazing through the window:
“Ah, his locks are filled with the drops of the night! But I have put off my chiton. How shall I put it on?”
“Rise up, my love, my fair one, and come away. The morn is nigh, flowers appear on the earth, and the vines with the tender grape give a goodly smell; the time of the singing of birds is come, and the voice of the turtle dove is heard from the mountains.”
“I have washed my feet,” whispers Sulamith; “how shall I defile them?”
The dark head disappears from the window-lattice; the resounding steps pass around the house and cease at the door. The beloved cautiously puts in his hand by the hole of the door. His fingers can be heard groping for the inner bolt.
Then does Sulamith rise up, pressing her palms hard against her breasts, and whispers in affright:
“My sister sleeps—I fear to awaken her.”
She irresolutely dons her sandals, puts a light chiton upon her naked body, throws a vail over it, and opens the door, leaving marks of myrrh upon the handles of the lock. But there is no longer anyone upon the road that glimmers whitely in its solitude between the dark bushes in the gray murk of morning. The beloved had not waited, and was gone; not even his steps were to be heard. The moon has dwindled and paled, and floats on high. In the east, above the waves of the mountains, the sky is putting on a chilly pink before the dawn. In the distance the walls and towers of Jerusalem glimmer whitely.
“My beloved! King of my life!” Sulamith calls into the humid darkness. “I am here. I await thee.... Return!”