Song of the Pipa
元和十年，予左迁九江郡司马。明年秋，送客湓浦口，闻舟中夜弹琵琶者，听其音，铮铮然有京都声。问其人，本长安倡女，尝学琵琶于穆、曹二善才，年长色衰，委身为贾人妇。遂命酒，使快弹数曲。曲罢悯然，自叙少小时欢乐事，今漂沦憔悴，转徙于江湖间。予出官二年，恬然自安，感斯人言，是夕始觉有迁谪意。因为长句，歌以赠之，凡六百一十六言，命曰《琵琶行》。
In the tenth year of Yuanhe, I was demoted to serve as an official in Jiujiang. The following autumn, while seeing a guest off at the mouth of the Pen River, I heard someone playing the pipa at night on a boat. The clear ringing sound reminded me of the capital. I asked about the player: she had once been a performer in Chang’an, had studied with the masters Mu and Cao, and, as she grew older, had married a merchant. We ordered wine and asked her to play several pieces. Afterwards she spoke sadly of the happiness of her youth and her present wandering. I had been away from office at the capital for two years and had felt at ease, but her story made me feel the sorrow of exile that night. So I wrote this long poem for her, 616 characters in all, and called it Song of the Pipa.
At night by the Xunyang River, I saw a guest off;
Maple leaves and reed flowers rustled in the autumn.
The host dismounted; the guest was aboard the boat.
We raised wine to drink, but there were no instruments.
Wine brought no cheer as the sad parting approached;
At our farewell the moon lay over the vast river.
Suddenly we heard a pipa sounding over the water;
The host forgot to go home; the guest did not depart.
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Following the sound, we quietly asked who was playing.
The pipa stopped; the player hesitated before speaking.
We moved the boats closer and invited her to meet us,
Added wine, turned up the lamp and reopened the feast.
After many calls she finally came out,
Still holding the pipa half across her face.
She turned the pegs and plucked a few notes;
Before the tune took shape, feeling was already there.
Each string was subdued, each sound full of thought,
As though telling of a life in which hopes went unfulfilled.
With lowered eyes, she played freely, note after note,
Telling all the endless matters held in her heart.
She gathered and twisted, brushed and picked the strings,
First playing Rainbow Skirts, then Six Beats.
The great strings murmured like a sudden rain;
The fine strings whispered like private speech.
Loud and soft sounds mingled in her playing,
Like large and small pearls falling on a jade plate.
They flowed smoothly like an oriole singing among flowers,
Then strained like a spring running beneath ice.
The icy spring grew cold and halting; the strings seemed to freeze;
The stopped sound could no longer pass and briefly fell silent.
Another hidden sorrow and quiet grief arose;
At that moment silence surpassed sound.
A silver vessel suddenly broke, water bursting out;
Armored riders charged forth, weapons clashing.
At the end she drew her pick across the strings at the center;
All four sounded together like silk tearing.
Boats to east and west were hushed, without a word;
Only the white autumn moon shone in midriver.
She paused thoughtfully, putting the pick among the strings,
Straightened her clothes and rose with a composed face.
She said she had once been a woman of the capital,
Her home below Xiama Hill.
At thirteen she mastered the pipa,
And her name was entered in the leading musicians’ company.
When she finished a piece, even masters admired her;
When she dressed, other performers envied her.
Young men of the city competed to give her gifts;
After one song, the lengths of red silk were beyond counting.
Jeweled combs broke as she beat time,
And wine spilled onto her crimson silk skirt.
Year after year passed in laughter,
Autumn moons and spring breezes slipping by unnoticed.
Her brother left for the army; her aunt died;
As evenings passed and mornings came, her youthful beauty faded.
Few horses and carriages now came to her door;
Growing older, she married a merchant.
The merchant valued profit and thought little of parting;
Last month he went to Fuliang to buy tea.
He had gone, leaving her alone in an empty boat at the river mouth;
Moonlight encircled the boat, and river water was cold.
Late at night she suddenly dreamed of younger days,
And woke crying, tears streaking her painted face.
Hearing the pipa, I had already sighed;
Hearing her story, I sighed again.
We are both people fallen far from home;
Why must we have met before to understand one another?
Last year I left the imperial capital,
Exiled and ill in Xunyang.
Xunyang is remote, without music;
All year I hear no sound of strings or pipes.
My home lies near the Pen River on low, damp ground,
Surrounded by yellow reeds and bitter bamboo.
What do I hear there morning and evening?
The cuckoo’s mournful cry and the gibbon’s calls.
On spring mornings of blossom and autumn nights of moonlight,
I often take up wine only to drink alone.
Are there no mountain songs and village flutes?
Their rough and broken sounds are hard to bear.
Tonight, hearing your pipa speak,
My ears clear as though I heard heavenly music.
Please do not refuse to sit and play once more;
For you I shall compose this Song of the Pipa.
Moved by my words, she stood for a long while,
Then sat again; the tightened strings grew urgent.
The sorrowing sound was unlike what we had heard before;
At the renewed music everyone covered their faces and wept.
Who among those seated shed the most tears?
The Jiangzhou official, his blue robe wet.
Notes
The preface dates the encounter to the year after Bai Juyi’s demotion to Jiujiang, near present-day Jiujiang in Jiangxi. A pipa is a plucked lute. The poem names two pieces, Rainbow Skirts and Six Beats, then compares the music to rain, whispers, pearls, birds, water and clashing weapons. Jia is a merchant; the capital is Chang’an. Gifts of silk and ornaments evoke the performer’s earlier life. The Jiangzhou official in the final line is the speaker, whose blue robe is wet with tears.
Meaning
At a riverside farewell near Xunyang, the speaker hears a pipa and invites its player aboard. Her music moves through rapid, soft, halted and forceful sounds before the river falls silent. She tells of her celebrated youth in Chang’an, the passing of family and patrons, and her lonely life after marrying a merchant. Her experience reminds the exiled poet of his own loneliness. He asks her to play again and writes a poem for her; at the second performance everyone weeps, especially the Jiangzhou official.
Appreciation
The preface explains the encounter; the poem then connects a farewell, a first performance, the musician’s story, the poet’s response and a second performance.
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Autumn sounds and a farewell without music establish the opening mood. The pipa changes the action: both host and guest stop to listen.
The first performance uses rain, whispers, pearls, birds, water and clashing weapons to suggest changing tone and rhythm. A period of silence becomes part of the music; the hushed boats show its effect on listeners.
The musician contrasts a celebrated youth with later solitude. The poet’s account of exile answers her story, and their shared displacement makes understanding possible despite a first meeting.
The second performance returns to the music after both stories are known. The wet blue robe gives the poem a concrete final image of grief.
Read the preface first, then follow the five stages of the narrative. Notice which images describe sound and which describe the listeners.
About the poet
Bai Juyi (772–846), courtesy name Letian, was a Tang poet and official born near present-day Xinzheng, Henan.
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His works include Song of the Pipa Player, Song of Everlasting Sorrow and many poems about daily life.