The Book of Poetry, tr. by James Legge, , at sacred-texts.com
2On that jujube tree the wind,
From the south, blows soft and kind,
Till its branches all are seen
Bright and rich in living green.
Wise our mother is and good;
Goodness we have never showed.
3See that cool and crystal spring,
How its waters comfort bring,
Welling forth the city near,
All who dwell in Chün to cheer!
Pained our mother is and tried,
As if help we seven denied.
4In their yellow plumage bright,
Lovely gleam those birds to sight,
And their notes fall on the ear,
Rich and, oh! so sweet to hear.
Seven sons we, without the art
To compose our mother's heart!