The Book of Poetry, tr. by James Legge, , at sacred-texts.com
2Long and large the O plants grow.
Wei plants surely I should know!
How can I confound them so?
Grief has robbed my eyes of sight,
Almost plunging me in night.
Others’ hands laid in the earth,
Those whose suffering gave me birth.
3Pitcher should be filled from vase;
Where this fails, ‘tis reckoned base.
Than to live as orphan left,
Better be of life bereft! p. 267
Father dead, on whom depend?
Mother dead, where find a friend?
I, abroad, this sad case know,
And, at home, can nowhere go.
4Father, from whose loins I sprung,
Mother, on whose breast I hung,
Tender were ye, and ye fed,
Now upheld, now gently led.
Eyes untiring watched my way;
Often in your arms I lay.
How could I repay your love,
Vast as arch of heaven above?
5Cold and bleak that southern hill!
Tempest fierce with terror thrill.
All around is dark, but more
Dark the lot which I deplore!
Others all can happy be;—
Why from grief am I not free?
6Hill so steep what foot can brave?
Blustering winds around it rave.
Fierce the winds! As fierce the fate,
Which pursues me desolate!
Happy all save me alone,
Thinking aye of dues undone!