The Book of Poetry, tr. by James Legge, , at sacred-texts.com
2Gently and soft the east wind blows,
And then there comes the whirlwind wild.
When anxious fears pressed round you close,
Your bosom held me as a child.
Now happy, and in peaceful state,
You throw me off and quite forget.
3Gently and soft the east wind blows,
Then round the rocky height it storms.
Each plant its leaves all dying shows;
The trees display their withered forms.
My virtues great forgotten all,
You keep in mind my faults, though small.