The Book of Poetry: Book VII. The Odes of Chêng: XX. Yeh Yu Man Ts‘ao
The Book of Poetry, tr. by James Legge, [1876]
2Where the grass creeps o’er the moor,
With the dew all covered o’er,
There the finest man found I,
’Bove whose clear and piercing eye,
Rose his forehead, broad and high.
Chance gave us a meeting rare,
And we both were happy there.