The Book of Poetry, tr. by James Legge, , at sacred-texts.com
2The wild geese fly about, and light
Amid the marsh, where grain once shone.
We rear the walls as we are told;—
Five thousand feet are quickly done
Great is the toil, and sore the pain,
But peaceful homes will rise again.
3The wild geese fly with plaintive note,
That sadly suits our weary sighs.
But those whose orders we obey,—
They see our pain; and they are wise.
If they had not been men of sense,
They had rebuked our insolence.