T ill the day doth break forth, And the shadows have fled away, Turn, be like, my beloved, To a roe, or to a young one of the harts, On the mountains of separation!
Hasta que sople la brisa del día y huyan las sombras, vuelve, amado mío, y sé semejante a una gacela o a un cervatillo sobre los montes de Beter.
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