The Book of Poetry, tr. by James Legge, , at sacred-texts.com
2The long-tailed pheasants surest covert find,
Amid the forest on the plain.
Here from my virtuous bride, of noble mind,
And person tall, I wisdom gain.
I praise her while we feast, and to her say,
"The love I bear you ne’er will know decay.
3"Poor we may be; spirits and viands fine
My humble means will not afford. p. 301
But what we have, we'll taste and not repine;
From us will come no grumbling word.
And though to you no virtue I can add,
Yet we will sing and dance, in spirit glad.
4"I oft ascend that lofty ridge with toil,
And hew large branches from the oaks;
Then of their leafy glory them I spoil,
And fagots form with vigorous strokes.
Returning tired, your matchless grace I see,
And my whole soul dissolves in ecstasy.
5"To the high hills I looked, and urged each steed;
The great road next was smooth and plain.
Up hill, o’er dale, I never slackened speed;
Like lutestring sounded every rein.
I knew, my journey ended, I should come
To you, sweet bride, the comfort of my home."