The Book of Poetry, tr. by James Legge, , at sacred-texts.com
3Here we are halting, and there we delay;
Anon we soon lose our high-mettled steeds.
The forest's gloom makes our steps go astray;
Each thicket of trees our searching misleads.
4For death as for life, at home or abroad,
We pledged to our wives our faithfulest word.
Their hands clasped in ours, together we vowed,
We'd live to old age in sweetest accord.
5This march to the south can end but in ill;
Oh! never shall we our wives again meet.
The word that we pledged we cannot fulfill;
Us home returning they never will greet.