The Book of Poetry, tr. by James Legge, , at sacred-texts.com
2My steeds, o’ertasked, their progress stayed,
When midway up that rocky height.
Give me a cup from that gilt vase,
When shall this longing end in sight?
3To mount that lofty ridge I drove,
Until my steeds all changed their hue.
A cup from that rhinoceros’ horn
May help my longing to subdue.
4Striving to reach that flat-topped hill,
My steeds, worn out, relaxed their strain;
My driver also sank oppressed:
I'll never see my lord again!