The Book of Poetry, tr. by James Legge, , at sacred-texts.com
2The plants, when closed her toil, she puts
In baskets round and baskets square.
Then home she hies to cook her spoil,
In pans and tripods ready there.
3In sacred chamber this she sets,
Where the light falls down through the wall.
’Tis she, our lord's young reverent wife,
Who manages this service all.