Your shoots are a royal garden full of pomegranates with choice fruits: henna with nard,

The Beloved to Her Lover: Awake, O north wind; come, O south wind! Blow on my garden so that its fragrant spices may send out their sweet smell. May my beloved come into his garden and eat its delightful fruit!

The mandrakes send out their fragrance; over our door is every delicacy, both new and old, which I have stored up for you, my lover.