My Beloved, the mountains,
and lonely wooded valleys,
and resounding rivers,
the whistling of love-stirring breezes,
the tranquil night
at the time of the rising dawn,
the supper that refreshes and deepens love.
Catch us the foxes,
for our vineyard is now in flower,
while we fashion a cone of roses
intricate as the pine's;
and let no one appear on the hill.
Be still, deadening north wind;
south wind, come, you
that waken love,
breathe through my garden,
let its fragrance flow,
and the Beloved will feed amid the flowers.
St. John of the Cross