The Book of Poetry, tr. by James Legge, [1876], at sacred-texts.com
2A russet pear tree rises all alone,
But rich with verdant foliage o’ergrown.
I walk alone, without one brother's care,
To whom I might, amid my straits, repair.
Plenty of people there are all around,
But none like those of my own name are found.
Ye travelers, who forever hurry by,
Why on me turn the unsympathizing eye?
No brother lives with whom my cause to plead;—
Why not perform for me the helping deed?