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凯风

凯风自南，吹彼棘心。

棘心夭夭，母氏劬劳。

凯风自南，吹彼棘薪。

母氏圣善，我无令人。

爰有寒泉，在浚之下。

有子七人，母氏劳苦。

睍睆黄鸟，载好其音。

有子七人，莫慰母心。



K’ae fung

The genial wind from the south

Blows on the heart of that jujube tree,

Till that heart looks tender and beautiful.

What toil and pain did our mother endure!

The genial wind from the south

Blows on the branches of that jujube tree,

Our mother is wise and good;

But among us there is none good.

There is the cool spring

Below (the city of) Tseun.

We are seven sons,

And our mother is full of pain and suffering.

The beautiful yellow birds

Give forth their pleasant notes.

We are seven sons,

And cannot compose our mother’s heart.

（James Legge 译）



A Gentle Wind

When a gentle wind from the south

Blows to the heart of those thorn-bushes

The heart of the thorn-bushes is freshened;

But our mother had only grief and care.

A gentle wind from the south

Blows on that brushwood of the thorn-tree.

Our mother was wise and kind;

But among us is no good man.

Yonder is a cold spring

Under the burgh of Xun.

There were sons, seven men;

Yet their mother had only grief and care.

Pretty is that yellow oriole

And pleasant its tune.

There were sons, seven men,

Yet none could soothe his mother’s heart.

（Arthur Waley 译）



K’ai feng

The Joyous wind (south wind) comes from the south, it blows on the heart of the jujube-tree; the heart of the jujube-tree is delicately beautiful; our mother toils and works.

The Joyous wind comes from the south, it blows on the brushwood of the jujube-tree; our mother is wise and good, but among us there is no good man.

And then there is the Cool spring, down below Sün; there are sons, seven men, but our mother toils and suffers bitterness.

Beautiful are the yellow birds, and now they make fine their song; there are sons, seven men, but none of them consoles the mother’s heart.

（Bernhard Karlgren 译）



Our Mother

From the south blows the breeze

Amid the jujube trees.

The trees grow on the soil;

We live on mother’s toil.

From the south blows the breeze

On branches of the trees.

Our mother’s good to sons;

We are not worthy ones.

The fountain’s water runs

To feed the stream and soil.

Our mother’s seven sons

Are fed by her hard toil.

The yellow birds can sing

To comfort us with art.

We seven sons can’t bring

Comfort to mother’s heart.

（许渊冲 译）



The Southern Breeze

From the south comes the breeze,

Caressing tender jujube trees.

When tender trees sprout and bloom,

My mother’s heavy worries loom.

From the south comes the breeze,

Caressing grown-up jujube trees.

My mother’s loving and ever kind,

But we let her down in her mind.

Where is the cool fountainhead?

It’s under the flowing river-bed.

My mother now has seven sons,

But never rests even once.

How the siskins sweetly twitter!

Melodious sounds they utter.

My mother now has seven sons,

But none of them are perfect ones.

（汪榕培、潘智丹 译）



Warm Wind

A warm southerly gusts through a young jujube grove.

Jujube grow swiftly, while ceaselessly my mother toils.

A warm southerly swells, maturing jujubes into fuel.

Mother’s love is a fathomless well – I fear I am unworthy.

Where is the pure spring in the city of Jun?

Seven brothers have grown up; mother’s drudgery knows no end.

A gold finch sings a tender, moving melody.

None of the seven brothers comforts our mother’s heart.