You who, amid the trees of Eden, are a flowering myrtle tree,
And amid the stars of heaven are the bright Orion,
God has sent to you a cluster of pure myrrh
of His own work, not the perfumer's skill.
The dove from whom, that day she nested in the myrtle tree,
The myrtle stole her fragrance and gave forth perfume
Ask not, while with her, for the sun to rise;
She asks not, while with you, for the rising of the moon.