Classic of Poetry

In the fourth month comes summer, And in the sixth month the heat begins to decrease. Were not my forefathers men? How can they endure that I should be [thus]?

The autumn days become cold, And the plants all decay. Amid such distress of disorder and dispersion, Whither can I betake myself?

The winter days are very fierce, And the storm blows in rapid gusts. People all are happy; Why do I alone suffer this misery?

On the mountain are fine trees,— Chestnut trees and plum trees. Of their degenerating into ravening thieves, I know not the evil cause.

Look at the waters of that spring, Sometimes clear, sometimes muddy. I am every day coming into contact with misfortune; How can I be happy?

Grandly flow the Këang and the Han, Regulators of the southern States. Worn out as I am with service, He yet takes no notice of me.

I am not an eagle nor a hawk, Which flies aloft to heaven. I am not a sturgeon, large or small, Which can dive and hide in the deep.

On the hills are the turtle-foot and thorn ferns; In the marshes are the medlar and the e. I, an officer, have made this song, To make known my plaint.