The Book of Poetry, tr. by James Legge, , at sacred-texts.com
2The pheasant, though no more in view,
His cry, below, above, forth sends.
Alas! my princely lord, ‘tis you,—
Your absence, that my bosom rends.
3At sun and moon I sit and gaze,
In converse with my troubled heart.
Far, far from me my husband stays!
When will he come to heal its smart?
4Ye princely men, who with him mate,
Say, mark ye not his virtuous way.
His rule is—covet nought, none hate;—
How can his steps from goodness stray?