The Book of Poetry, tr. by James Legge, , at sacred-texts.com
2The varnish trees on hillsides grow,
And chestnuts on the lands below.
When access to the prince we've found,
We sit and hear the lutes’ sweet sound.
If we seize not this joy to-day,
Old age will have us for its prey.
3The mulberries on the hillsides grow,
And willows where the grounds are low.
When to the prince our way we've made
We sit and hear the organs played.
If we pass by this joy to-day,
Old age will bear us all away.