Classic Poem

I charge you, if you my Belovèd see,
To tell him that my soul is sick of love,
And has been, ever since, beneath the tree,
He to my fainting lips did flagons move,
And called me Fair and Undefiled and Dove.
And bore my drooping head upon his knee,
And gave me golden fruit from boughs above,
And kisses sweeter than all wine to me.
Now, when I burn to clasp his garment's hem,
He makes, alas, as though he would pass by.
Does not his signet-ring my finger gem?
Why find I not whom my soul loveth, why?
Tell him, O Daughters of Jerusalem,
That on his bosom I must rest, or die.