The Book of Poetry, tr. by James Legge, , at sacred-texts.com
2The valleys show the motherwort,
Now scorched where tall it rose.
Behold a wife driven forth from home,
By stern misfortune's blows!
We hear her groans, we hear her groans,
As she her hapless fate bemoans.
3The valleys show the motherwort,
Scorched in each dampest place.
Behold a wife driven forth from home—
Bewail in vain her ease!
Her tears aye flow, her tears aye flow;
How’er she grieve, ne’er ends her woe!