The Book of Poetry, tr. by James Legge, , at sacred-texts.com
2 Like blades of white grass were her fingers fine;
Her skin like purest ointment hard congealed;
Her neck like larvæ on the tree which shine
So long and white. Her opening lips revealed
Her even teeth, behind their screen concealed,
Like melon seeds. Her front cicada-square,
Displayed her eyebrows curved upon its field,
Like horns of silkworm moth; and dimples rare,
With dark and lucid eyes, showed face beyond compare. p. 64
3 When, on her coming, near the city wall,
She halted in the cultured fields, each eye
Viewed with delight her figure large and tall.
Her team of mettled steeds their bits tossed high,
Round which was twined red cloth in rich supply.
Then in her carriage she went on in state,
Its pheasant screens oft followed by the cry,
"Early retire from court, ye nobles great;
The marquis leave unfired, to cherish this fit mate."
4 Where out of Ch‘i into our state she passed,
Its banks all green with rush and sedges rank,
Northwards the Ho rolled on the waters vast
Of its majestic stream, while in it sank
With plashing sound the nets, which dripping, drank,
The toiling fishers dropt into the wave,
’Mong shoals of sturgeon, both the large and lank.
Her sister ladies shone in dresses brave,
And martial looked the officers, who escort gave.