The Book of Poetry, tr. by James Legge, , at sacred-texts.com
2 O sun, O moon, whose shining vault
O’erspreads this earth below,
Behold this man, with willful fault,
Kindness refuse to show.
His restless mind how shall he turn?
He could not then my fondness spurn.
3 O sun, O moon, in upper sphere,
That from the east come forth,
This man speaks phrases sounding fair,
But all of little worth.
Were but his mind to goodness set,
He could not me so much forget.
4 O sun so bright, O moon so fair,
That from the east forth come;
O parents dear, whose tender care
Ne’er comes in this new home;
If fixed his mind, ’gainst reason sage
He could not thus my heart outrage.