The Book of Poetry, tr. by James Legge, , at sacred-texts.com
2The russet pear tree stands there all alone;
How dense the leafy shade all o’er it thrown!
The king's affairs require no slackening hand,
And our sad hearts their feelings can't command.
The plants and trees in beauty shine; ‘tis spring.
From off my heart its gloom I fain would fling.
This season well my warrior home may bring! p. 202
3I climbed that northern hill, and medlars sought;
The spring nigh o’er, to ripeness they were brought.
"The king's affairs cannot be slackly done:"—
’Tis thus our parents mourn their absent son.
But now his sandal car must broken be;
I seem his powerful steeds worn out to see.
Relief has gone! He can't be far from me!
4Alas! they can't have marched; they don't arrive!
More hard it grows with my distress to strive.
The time is passed, and still he is not here!
My sorrows multiply; great is my fear.
But lo! by reeds and shell I have divined.
That he is near, they both assure my mind;—
Soon at my side my warrior I shall find!