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，尝学琶琵于穆、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》。

浔阳江头夜送客，枫叶荻花秋瑟瑟。
主人下马客在船，举酒欲饮无管弦。
醉不成欢惨将别，别时茫茫江浸月。
忽闻水上琵琶声，主人忘归客不发.
寻声暗问弹者谁？琵琶声停欲语迟。
移船相近邀相见，添酒回灯重开宴。
千呼万唤始出来，犹抱琵琶半遮面。
转轴拨弦三两声，未成曲调先有情。
弦弦掩抑声声思，似诉平生不得志。
低眉信手续续弹，说尽心中无限事。
轻拢慢捻抹复挑，初为《霓裳》后《六幺》。
大弦嘈嘈如急雨，小弦切切如私语。
嘈嘈切切错杂弹，大珠小珠落玉盘。
间关莺语花底滑，幽咽泉流冰下难。
冰泉冷涩弦凝绝，凝绝不通声暂歇。
别有幽愁暗恨生，此时无声胜有声。
银瓶乍破水浆迸，铁骑突出刀枪鸣。
曲终收拨当心画，四弦一声如裂帛。
东船西舫悄无言，唯见江心秋月白。

沉吟放拨插弦中，整顿衣裳起敛容。
自言本是京城女，家在虾蟆陵下住。（下马陵）
十三学得琵琶成，名属教坊第一部。
曲罢曾教善才服，妆成每被秋娘妒。
五陵年少争缠头，一曲红绡不知数。
钿头银篦击节碎，血色罗裙翻酒污。
今年欢笑复明年，秋月春风等闲度。
弟走从军阿姨死，暮去朝来颜色故。
门前冷落鞍马稀，老大嫁作商人妇。
商人重利轻别离，前月浮梁买茶去。
去来江口守空船，绕船月明江水寒。
夜深忽梦少年事，梦啼妆泪红阑干。

我闻琵琶已叹息，又闻此语重唧唧。
同是天涯沦落人，相逢何必曾相识！
我从去年辞帝京，谪居卧病浔阳城。
浔阳地僻无音乐，终岁不闻丝竹声。
住近湓江地低湿，黄芦苦竹绕宅生。
其间旦暮闻何物？杜鹃啼血猿哀鸣。
春江花朝秋月夜，往往取酒还独倾。
岂无山歌与村笛，呕哑嘲哳难为听。
今夜闻君琵琶语，如听仙乐耳暂明。
莫辞更坐弹一曲，为君翻作《琵琶行》。
感我此言良久立，却坐促弦弦转急。
凄凄不似向前声，满座重闻皆掩泣。
座中泣下谁最多?江州司马青衫湿。

In the tenth year of the reign of Yuanhe, I was demoted to the assistant prefectship of Jiujiang. The next autumn, while seeing a friend off at Pengpu, I heard someone strumming a lute in a boat at night, playing with the touch of a musician from the capital. I found upon inquiry that the lutist was a courtesan from Chang'an who had learned from the musicians Mu and Cao but growing old and losing her looks, she had married a merchant. Then I ordered drinks and asked her to play a few tunes. After playing, in deep distress, she told me of the pleasures of her youth and said now that her beauty had fades she was drifting from place to place by rivers and lakes. In my two years as an official away from the capital I had been resigned enough, my mind at peace, but moved by her tale that night I began to take my demotion and exile to heart. So I wrote a long poem and presented it to her. It has 612 words and I call it the Song of the Lute Player.

By the Xunyang River a guest is seen off one night;
Chill the autumn, red the maple leaves and in flower the reeds;
The host alights from his horse, the guest is aboard,
They raise their cups to drink but have no music.
Drunk without joy, in sadness they must part;
At the time of parting the river seems steeped in moonlight;
Suddenly out on the water a lute is heard;
The host forgets to turn back, the guest delays going.
Seeking the sound in the dark, we ask who is the player.
The lute is silent, hesitant the reply.
Rowing closer, we ask if we may meet the musician,
Call for more wine, trim the lamp and resume our feast;
Only after a thousand entreaties does she appear,
Her face half-hidden behind the lute in her arms.
She tunes up and plucks the strings a few times,
Touching our hearts before even the tune is played;
Each chord strikes a pensive note
As if voicing the disillusion of a lifetime;
Her head is bent, her fingers stray over the strings
Pouring out the infinite sorrows of her heart.
Lightly she pinches in the strings, slowly she strums and plucks them;
First The Rainbow Garments, then The Six Minor Notes.
The high notes wail like pelting rain,
The low notes whisper like soft confidences;
Wailing and whispering interweave
Like pearls large and small cascading on a plate of jade,
Like a warbling oriole gliding below the blossom,
Like a mountain brook purling down a bank,
Till the brook turns to ice, the strings seem about snap,
About to snap, and for one instant all is still
Only an undertone of quiet grief
Is more poignant in the silence than any sound;
Then a silver bottle is smashed, out gushes the water,
Armoured riders charge, their swords and lances clang!
When the tune ends, she draws her pick full across
And the four strings give a sound like the tearing of silk.
Right and left of the boat all is silence —
We see only the autumn moon, silver in midstream.
Pensively she puts the pick between the strings,
Straightens her clothes, rises and composes herself.
She is, she says, a girl from the capital
Whose family once lived at the foot of Toad Hill.
At thirteen she learned to play the lute
And ranked first among the musicians;
Her playing was admired by the old masters,
Her looks were the envy of other courtesans;
Youths from wealthy districts vied in their gifts to engage her,
A single song brought her countless rolls of red silk;
Men smashed jeweled and silver trinkets to mark the beat;
Silk skirts as red as blood were stained by spilt wine.
Pleasure and laughter from one year to the next.
While the autumn moon and spring breeze passed unheeded.
Then her brother joined the army, her aunt died,
The days and nights slipped by and her beauty fades,
No more carriages and horsemen thronged her gate,
And growing old she became a merchant's wife.
The merchant thought only of profit: to seek it he leaves her.
Two months ago he went to Fuliang to buy tea,
Leaving her alone in the boat at the mouth of the river;
All around the moonlight is bright, the river is cold,
And late at night, dreaming of her girlhood,
She cries in her sleep, staining her rouged cheeks with tears.
The music of her lute has made me sign,
And now she tells this plaintive tale of sorrow;
We are both ill-starred, drifting on the face of the earth;
No matter if we were strangers before this encounter.
Last year I bade the imperial city farewell;
A demoted official, I lay ill in Xunyang;
Xunyang is a paltry place without any music,
For one year I heard no wind instruments, no strings.
Now I live on the low, damp flat by the River Pen,
Round my house yellow reeds and bitter bamboos grow rife;
From dawn till dusk I hear no other sounds
But the wailing of night-jars and the moaning of apes.
On a day of spring blossoms by the river or moonlit night in autumn
I often call for wine and drink alone;
Of course, there are rustic songs and village pipes,
But their shrill discordant notes grate on my ears;
Tonight listening to your lute playing
Was like hearing fairy music; it gladdened my ears.
Don't refuse, but sit down and play another tune,
And I'll write a Song of the Lute Player for you.
Touched by my words, she stands there for some time,
Then goes back to her seat and played with quickened tempo
Music sadder far than the first melody,
And at the sound not a man of us has dry eyes.
The assistant prefect of Jiangzhou is so moved
That his blue coat is wet with tears.