The Song of Everlasting Regret (Bai Juyi, The Song of Everlasting Regret)

The Han emperor (some versions say "king") was infatuated with beauty, longing for a woman whose loveliness could topple cities and kingdoms, yet for years of ruling the realm he had failed to find one. A daughter of the Yang family had just grown to maturity, raised deep within the inner chambers, unknown to the outside world. Her heaven-born beauty could not be hidden forever, and at last she was chosen to enter the sovereign’s presence. With a single backward glance and a smile, she radiated a hundred charms, and all the ladies of the six palaces paled into insignificance. In the chill of spring, the sovereign granted her a bath in the Huaqing Pool; the warm, smooth waters caressed her delicate skin. When the maidservants helped her rise, she was languid and fragile—this was the first time she received the sovereign’s favor. Her cloud-like tresses and flower-like face were adorned with a golden step-sway hairpin; within the warmth of the lotus-embroidered bed curtain, they passed the spring night. The spring night seemed too short; the sun rose high, and from then on the sovereign no longer held morning court. She attended to his pleasures and feasts without a moment’s rest; in spring she followed him on outings, and at night she alone served him. Within the rear palace were three thousand beauties, yet the favor of all three thousand was concentrated on her alone. She adorned herself in the gilded chamber, serving the night with coquetry; after banquets in the jade tower, she was drunk with spring passion. Her brothers and sisters all received titles and rewards, and a dazzling glory shone upon her family. Thus the hearts of all parents under heaven no longer valued bearing sons, but valued bearing daughters instead.

On Mount Li, the palaces soared into the clouds; celestial music drifted on the wind, heard everywhere. Gentle songs and graceful dances blended with strings and winds; the sovereign could not gaze enough all day long. Then the war drums of Yuyang shook the earth, shattering the “Rainbow and Feather Garment Dance.” Smoke and dust rose from the ninefold palace gates; a thousand chariots and ten thousand horsemen fled toward the southwest. The kingfisher-feathered banners swayed and halted repeatedly, traveling westward beyond the capital gate for over a hundred miles. The six armies refused to advance; the sovereign, helpless, could only let Lady Yang die before his horse. Her flower-shaped hairpins fell to the ground, uncollected; kingfisher-feather ornaments, golden sparrow pins, and jade hairpins lay abandoned. The sovereign covered his face with tears, but could not save her; looking back, blood and tears flowed together.

Yellow dust filled the sky, and the wind howled mournfully; along the cloud-plank road, they wound their way up to Sword Gate Pass. Below Mount Emei, travelers were few; the banners lost their luster, and the sunlight seemed pallid. The rivers of Shu were green, the mountains of Shu were blue; day and night, the sage sovereign was consumed by longing. In the temporary palace, gazing at the moonlight, it was a heartbreaking sight; hearing the bells in the night rain, it was a gut-wrenching sound. Heaven and earth turned, and the sovereign’s chariot returned; upon reaching this place, he lingered, unable to depart. In the earth beneath Mawei Slope, her face could never be seen again—only the spot where she died remained. Sovereign and ministers looked at one another, their tears soaking their robes; gazing east toward the capital gate, they let their horses wander back on their own.

After returning, the ponds and gardens were still as before; the lotus in Taiye Pool and the willows at Weiyang Palace remained unchanged. The lotus resembled her face, the willow leaves her brows; faced with these, how could tears not fall? On spring nights when peach and plum blossoms bloomed, in autumn rains when parasol leaves fell. In the Western Palace and Southern Park, autumn grass grew thick; fallen leaves piled on the steps, red heaps unswept. The Pear Garden disciples had newly grown white hair; the eunuchs of the Pepper Chamber and the young maids had aged. In the twilight palace, fireflies danced, and thoughts grew still; the lone lamp burned down, yet sleep would not come. The bells and drums sounded slowly, the first watch seemed endless; the Milky Way shone bright, and dawn was near. On the paired-mandarin-duck tiles, thick frost lay cold; within the kingfisher-feather quilt, who would share the chill? A year had passed since their parting of life and death, yet her soul had never entered his dreams.

A Daoist priest from Lingiong, a visitor to the capital of Hongdu, could summon spirits with utmost sincerity. Moved by the sovereign’s endless longing, he ordered the adept to search diligently. Soaring through the air and riding the ether, swift as lightning, he ascended to heaven and descended to earth, seeking everywhere. Upward, he exhausted the blue sky; downward, he searched the Yellow Springs—both places were vast and empty, with no trace. Suddenly, he heard of a fairy mountain on the sea, a mountain in the realm of the ethereal and indistinct. Lofty pavilions rose amid five-colored auspicious clouds, where many graceful immortals dwelled. Among them was one immortal, whose courtesy name was Taizhen (some say her style name was Yuzhen, also known as Jade Consort), with snow-white skin and flower-like features—it seemed to be her.

At the western side of the golden gate, he knocked on the jade portal, asking Xiaoyu to inform Shuangcheng. Hearing that a messenger from the Han emperor had arrived, she woke from her dream within the Nine-Flower Canopy. Throwing on her robe and pushing aside her pillow, she rose and paced; the pearl screens and silver curtains were drawn open one by one. Her cloud-like hair was half-askew, just awakened; her flower crown was untidy as she descended the hall. The wind stirred her immortal sleeves, lifting them gracefully, as if she were still dancing the “Rainbow and Feather Garment Dance.” Her jade-like face was lonely, and tears streamed down—like a sprig of spring pear blossom laden with raindrops.

Gazing with deep emotion, she thanked the sovereign: since their parting, their forms and voices had been lost to each other. The favor of Zhaoyang Hall was severed forever; the years in Penglai Palace stretched endlessly. She looked back and gazed down at the mortal world; she could not see Chang’an, only dust and mist. She could only use old keepsakes to convey her deep feelings, sending the messenger a jeweled box and a golden hairpin. With the golden hairpin, she kept one prong; with the jeweled box, she kept one half—splitting the gold, dividing the jeweled shell. As long as their hearts were as steadfast as gold and jewels, in heaven or on earth, they would meet again. At parting, she earnestly entrusted him with another message, a vow known to both their hearts. On the seventh day of the seventh month, in the Hall of Eternal Life, at midnight when no one was near, they had spoken their secret words: In heaven, they wished to be as paired birds; on earth, as twined branches. Heaven and earth may last forever, but this regret will never end—endless, without cease.