The Book of Poetry, tr. by James Legge, , at sacred-texts.com
2 Black is every plant become;
Every man is torn from home.
Kept on foot, our state is sad;—
As if we no feelings had!
3Not rhinoceroses we!
Tigers do we care to be?
Fields like these so desolate
Are to us a hateful fate.
4Long-tailed foxes pleased may hide
’Mong the grass, where they abide.
We, in box carts slowly borne,
On the great roads plod and mourn.