The Book of Poetry, tr. by James Legge, , at sacred-texts.com
2With slow and heavy sound his car,—
His car of state, moves on.
O’er his dress spread, the colors red
Shine like carnation stone.
Thinking I always am of thee;
The fondest thoughts have I.
The fear of him alone holds me,
Or to thine arms I'd fly. p. 84
3Our fate may be, while still alive,
Always apart to dwell;
But when we're dead, we shall be laid
In the same earthen cell.
If haply thou should’st say that I
Am not in this sincere,
I swear its truth by that day's eye,
Whose piercing glance I fear.