The Seventh Song
At dusk the wind wailed the sobs of frontier,
To whom could I my inner woe confide?
Lo, leagues of beacons, and fields were sere,
The strong young brushed their old weaklings aside.
They camp where there are rills and fresh meadow,
Barbaric herds scatter like ants and bees.
They eft camp when stream dried and grass yellow,
This seventh song abhorred this place of sleaze.
Tr. Xiao Cao