University of Virginia Library

潯言江頭夜送客， 楓葉荻花秋瑟瑟。
主人下馬客在船， 舉酒欲飲無管絃。
醉不成歡慘將別， 別時茫茫江浸月。
忽聞水上琵琶聲， 主人忘歸客不發。
尋聲暗問彈者誰？ 琵琶聲停欲語遲。
移船相近邀相見， 添酒回燈重開宴。
千呼萬喚始出來， 猶抱琵琶半遮面。
轉軸撥絃三兩聲， 未成曲調先有情。
絃絃掩抑聲聲思， 似訴平生不得志。
低眉信手續續彈， 說盡心中無限事。
輕攏慢撚抹復挑， 初為霓裳後六么。
大絃嘈嘈如急雨， 小絃切切如私語。
嘈嘈切切錯雜彈， 大珠小珠落玉盤。
間官鶯語花底滑， 幽咽泉流水下灘。
水泉冷澀絃凝絕， 凝絕不通聲漸歇。
別有幽愁暗恨生， 此時無聲勝有聲。
銀瓶乍破水漿迸， 鐵騎突出刀鎗鳴。
曲終收撥當心畫， 四絃一聲如裂帛。
東船西舫悄無言， 唯見江心秋月白。
沈吟放撥插絃中， 整頓衣裳起斂容。
自言本是京城女， 家在蝦蟆陵下住。
十三學得琵琶成， 名屬教坊第一部。
曲罷曾教善才服， 妝成每被秋娘妒，
五陵年少爭纏頭， 一曲紅綃不知數。
鈿頭銀篦擊節碎， 血色羅裙翻酒汙。
今年歡笑復明年， 秋月春風等閑度。
弟走從軍阿姨死， 暮去朝來顏色故。
門前冷落車馬稀， 老大嫁作商人婦。
商人重利輕別離， 前月浮梁買茶去。
去來江口守空船， 繞船月明江水寒。
夜深忽夢少年事， 夢啼妝淚紅闌干，
我聞琵琶已嘆息， 又聞此語重唧唧。
同是天涯淪落人， 相逢何必曾相識。
我從去年辭帝京， 謫居臥病潯陽城。
潯陽地僻無音樂， 終歲不聞絲竹聲。
住近湓江地低濕， 黃蘆苦竹繞宅生。
其間旦暮聞何物， 杜鵑啼血猿哀鳴。
春江花朝秋月夜， 往往取酒還獨傾。
豈無山歌與村笛？ 嘔啞嘲哳難為聽。
今夜聞君琵琶語， 如聽仙樂耳暫明。
莫辭更坐彈一曲， 為君翻作琵琶行。
感我此言良久立， 卻坐促絃絃轉急。
淒淒不似向前聲， 滿座重聞皆掩泣。
座中泣下誰最多， 江州司馬青衫濕。

I was bidding a guest farewell, at night on the Xunyang River,
Where maple-leaves and full-grown rushes rustled in the autumn.
I, the host, had dismounted, my guest had boarded his boat,
And we raised our cups and wished to drink-but, alas, there was no music.
For all we had drunk we felt no joy and were parting from each other,
When the river widened mysteriously toward the full moon --
We had heard a sudden sound, a guitar across the water.
Host forgot to turn back home, and guest to go his way.
We followed where the melody led and asked the player's name.
The sound broke off...then reluctantly she answered.
We moved our boat near hers, invited her to join us,
Summoned more wine and lanterns to recommence our banquet.
Yet we called and urged a thousand times before she started toward us,
Still hiding half her face from us behind her guitar.
...She turned the tuning-pegs and tested several strings;
We could feel what she was feeling, even before she played:
Each string a meditation, each note a deep thought,
As if she were telling us the ache of her whole life.
She knit her brows, flexed her fingers, then began her music,
Little by little letting her heart share everything with ours.
She brushed the strings, twisted them slow, swept them, plucked them --
First the air of The Rainbow Skirt, then The Six Little Ones.
The large strings hummed like rain,
The small strings whispered like a secret,
Hummed, whispered-and then were intermingled
Like a pouring of large and small pearls into a plate of jade.
We heard an oriole, liquid, hidden among flowers.
We heard a brook bitterly sob along a bank of sand...
By the checking of its cold touch, the very string seemed broken
As though it could not pass; and the notes, dying away
Into a depth of sorrow and concealment of lament,
Told even more in silence than they had told in sound....
A silver vase abruptly broke with a gush of water,
And out leapt armored horses and weapons that clashed and smote --
And, before she laid her pick down, she ended with one stroke,
And all four strings made one sound, as of rending silk
There was quiet in the east boat and quiet in the west,
And we saw the white autumnal moon enter the river's heart.
...When she had slowly placed the pick back among the strings,
She rose and smoothed her clothing and, formal, courteous,
Told us how she had spent her girlhood at the capital,
Living in her parents' house under the Mount of Toads,
And had mastered the guitar at the age of thirteen,
With her name recorded first in the class-roll of musicians,
Her art the admiration even of experts,
Her beauty the envy of all the leading dancers,
How noble youths of Wuling had lavishly competed
And numberless red rolls of silk been given for one song,
And silver combs with shell inlay been snapped by her rhythms,
And skirts the colour of blood been spoiled with stains of wine....
Season after season, joy had followed joy,
Autumn moons and spring winds had passed without her heeding,
Till first her brother left for the war, and then her aunt died,
And evenings went and evenings came, and her beauty faded --
With ever fewer chariots and horses at her door;
So that finally she gave herself as wife to a merchant
Who, prizing money first, careless how he left her,
Had gone, a month before, to Fuliang to buy tea.
And she had been tending an empty boat at the river's mouth,
No company but the bright moon and the cold water.
And sometimes in the deep of night she would dream of her triumphs
And be wakened from her dreams by the scalding of her tears.
Her very first guitar-note had started me sighing;
Now, having heard her story, I was sadder still.
"We are both unhappy -- to the sky's end.
We meet. We understand. What does acquaintance matter?
I came, a year ago, away from the capital
And am now a sick exile here in Jiujiang --
And so remote is Jiujiang that I have heard no music,
Neither string nor bamboo, for a whole year.
My quarters, near the River Town, are low and damp,
With bitter reeds and yellowed rushes all about the house.
And what is to be heard here, morning and evening? --
The bleeding cry of cuckoos, the whimpering of apes.
On flowery spring mornings and moonlit autumn nights
I have often taken wine up and drunk it all alone,
Of course there are the mountain songs and the village pipes,
But they are crude and-strident, and grate on my ears.
And tonight, when I heard you playing your guitar,
I felt as if my hearing were bright with fairymusic.
Do not leave us. Come, sit down. Play for us again.
And I will write a long song concerning a guitar."
...Moved by what I said, she stood there for a moment,
Then sat again to her strings-and they sounded even sadder,
Although the tunes were different from those she had played before....
The feasters, all listening, covered their faces.
But who of them all was crying the most?
This Jiujiang official. My blue sleeve was wet.