
The Book of Poetry, tr. by James Legge, [1876], at sacred-texts.com
2As cloud of dust wind-blown,
     Just such is he.
 Ready he seems to own,
     And come to me.
 But he comes not nor goes,
     Stands in his pride.
 Long, long, with painful throes,
     Grieved I abide.
3Strong blew the wind; the cloud
     Hastened away.
 Soon dark again, the shroud
     Covers the day.
 I wake, and sleep no more
     Visits my eyes.
 His course I sad deplore,
     With heavy sighs. p. 31
4Cloudy the sky, and dark;
     The thunders roll.
 Such outward signs will mark
     My troubled soul.
 I wake, and sleep no more
     Comes to give rest.
 His course I sad deplore,
     In anguished breast.