The Book of Poetry, tr. by James Legge, , at sacred-texts.com
2The garden jujube, although small,
May still be used for food.
A state, though poor as ours, might thrive,
If but its rule were good.
Our rule is bad, our state is sad,
With mournful heart I grieve.
Methinks I'll wander through the land,
My misery to relieve.
Who know me not, with scornful thought,
Deem that wild views I hold.
"Those men are right," they fiercely say,
"What mean your words so bold?"
Deep in my heart my sorrows lie,
And none the cause may know.
How can they know, who never try
To learn whence comes our woe?