The Book of Poetry, tr. by James Legge, , at sacred-texts.com
2Those frowning rocks the heights surmount,
And fill the mind with dread.
O’er hills, through streams, our steps we count;
When shall our march be sped?
Our warrior hastens on the track,
Nor thinks he of our drawing back.
3Look at the swine, with legs all white,
Washed by the pools from stain!
The moon wades through the Hyads bright,
Foretelling heavier rain.
He at whose word we eastward fare
No leisure has for other care.