The Book of Poetry, tr. by James Legge, [1876], at sacred-texts.com
2Since eastward on his course he sped,
My hair neglected flies.
I might anoint and wash my head,
But not to meet his eyes.
3For rain, for rain, the people cry,
But brightly shines the sun;
So for my absent lord long I,
Head pained, and heart undone. p. 72
4Where shall I Lethe's lily find,
Behind my house to set?
I think of him with aching mind,
For how can I forget?