凤栖梧(伫倚危楼风细细) - 柳永
Feng Qi Wu (Standing by the Tall Tower in a Gentle Breeze) - Liu Yong
凤栖梧(伫倚危楼风细细) - 柳永
Feng Qi Wu (Standing by the Tall Tower in a Gentle Breeze) - Liu Yong
“Feng Qi Wu (Standing by the Tall Tower in a Gentle Breeze)” by Liu Yong is an iconic ci (lyric) poem from the Northern Song Dynasty. The name “Feng Qi Wu” is the musical tune or melody to which these words were once performed—a practice common in classical Chinese poetry, where each poem was meant to harmonize with an existing tune.
Central to this poem is the theme of longing, expressed in exquisitely understated images of spring, twilight, and the speaker’s quiet solitude. From the first line, Liu Yong creates an atmosphere of hushed yearning: the speaker stands alone on a high tower, observing the gentle breeze and the fading light of day. In Chinese literature, towers or pavilions often serve as vantage points for contemplating the distance—both physical and emotional—that separates the speaker from a beloved or from the happiness they desire.
The phrase “the sorrow of spring” (春愁) is a staple of traditional Chinese poetry, evoking the wistful realization that the season of renewal also underscores human frailty and transient joys. This melancholic tinge is intensified by the merging shades of grass and mountain under the dimming sun. Liu Yong’s choice to emphasize silence in the line “Silent, who can understand this heart?” reflects a common motif in ci poetry: the speaker’s inner turmoil is set against a vast, impersonal landscape, making that yearning feel especially profound.
In the second half of the poem, the speaker contemplates alleviating sorrow through wine and song—a typical response in classical Chinese verse, where poetic gatherings often include a hint of inebriation as both artistic inspiration and emotional relief. However, Liu Yong undercuts this escape by noting the hollowness of forced revelry. Rather than delivering true solace, the act of drinking and singing only emphasizes the speaker’s underlying loneliness.
One of the most quoted lines from this poem is “衣带渐宽终不悔” (Though my belt grows looser, I do not regret). This vividly illustrates the speaker’s consuming passion, suggesting that physical decline—losing weight or becoming worn from heartache—is a price willingly paid for love. The concluding sentiment—“为伊消得人憔悴” (All for you, I willingly grow haggard)—solidifies the poem’s devotion, turning the speaker’s sorrow into an emblem of unwavering dedication. In many ways, it resonates with the broader tradition of romantic or courtly love lyrics in China, which often portrayed longing not simply as suffering but also as a testament to the depth of one’s feeling.
Throughout, Liu Yong’s language is refined, employing classic imagery—like delicate spring breezes, distant mountains, and lonely towers—that intensifies the poem’s emotional scope. This blend of nature, music, and personal reflection exemplifies the ci form, which evolved during the Song Dynasty into one of the pinnacles of Chinese literary expression. In Liu Yong’s hands, each phrase is carefully balanced to evoke both the loveliness of spring and the ache of separation, culminating in a poem that has long been cherished for its emotional resonance and melodic grace.
Even centuries later, “Feng Qi Wu” remains one of the most beloved examples of ci poetry, frequently studied and recited for its portrayal of romantic yearning. It underscores the universal nature of longing—how love can simultaneously be a source of profound beauty and heartfelt pain, and how the natural world can mirror our deepest desires and losses.
• Showcases the ci style: a lyrical poem set to a named melody.
• Explores themes of separation, longing, and the bittersweet nature of spring.
• Balances striking imagery—towers, fading light, gentle wind—with an undercurrent of heartache.
• Highlights devotion so intense that the speaker’s physical well-being diminishes, yet regret never intrudes.
• Remains a hallmark of Song Dynasty poetry, beloved for its emotional depth and melodic language.
Sometimes, I picture a high-rise balcony in a busy metropolis: the city lights below, a quiet figure watching. The poem’s hush resonates in that universal posture of waiting for something that might never return, reminiscent of how heartbreak often hides behind the neon glow of modern skylines.
Short impression: even a single mention of the breeze underscores heartbreak’s intangible quality—nothing overt, just an understated sorrow tracing each gust in the lonely night.
Compared once more with Liu Yong’s earlier ‘鹊桥仙(纤云弄巧),’ which envisions cosmic romance under the Magpie Bridge, ‘凤栖梧(伫倚危楼风细细)’ is more earthbound, focusing on the immediate hush of solitary longing rather than mythic reunions. Both revolve around longing, but here, it’s a quiet, grounded sorrow rather than a starry fate.
A whispered ache lingers in each line, as though every subtle breeze hints at a love that can’t quite find closure.
A middle reflection: each line captures the hush between a parted couple’s final words, a lull where the poet stands uncertain if the wind might convey a last hope or carry away all illusions. That tension infuses the poem with an almost timeless heartbreak.
A middle reflection: the poem doesn’t offer solutions or comfort—just the mild ache of standing in the wind, aware that each passing gust might carry away unspoken words or regrets not easily retrieved.
Sometimes I recall how, in ‘雨霖铃(寒蝉凄切),’ Liu Yong also depicts a sorrowful night, but there the farewell is more explicit. Here in ‘凤栖梧(伫倚危楼风细细),’ the loneliness resonates with a gentler hush, focusing on a solitary figure at a high window, quietly longing rather than outwardly lamenting.
Compared to Du Fu’s heavier laments about social turmoil, here the sorrow is purely personal—no grand society weeping, only a single heart under a mild wind. Both, though, reveal that longing, private or public, can shape how one perceives the world’s hush.
Short yet profound: each verse encloses a subdued heartbreak that doesn’t roar but whispers, refusing to let you ignore the tender sense of longing swirling in the air.
Sometimes it reminds me of how ephemeral online romances form and dissolve. People retreat to late-night windows or phone screens, much like the poet leaning at a tower’s edge, trying to make sense of half-lost connections carried off by intangible breezes.
A longer observation: the poet’s vantage high above the city underscores his longing—he physically stands apart, gazing out as if searching for signs of a lost bond in the distant horizon. Where earlier lines in Liu Yong’s oeuvre might highlight direct heartbreak, here he envelops the mood in a mild gloom, letting the wind’s gentle brush stand for all words unspoken. The poem’s real power lies in its understatement—an elegant hush that makes heartbreak resonate all the stronger, precisely because it never fully articulates what’s lost. Instead, the poet and the reader linger in that precarious space between unsaid confessions and silent acceptance, a stance that remains powerfully modern even in an era of digital communications, proving that heartbreak’s mild hush can cut deeper than any loud lament.
Reading it can evoke modern nighttime city balconies, where people stand after heartbreak, letting the distant hum of traffic mingle with personal reflections. The poem’s hush echoes that hush of interior sorrow masked by the calm night sky.
Compared again to Li Bai’s flamboyant embraces of nature’s grandeur, Liu Yong’s approach remains more intimate—here, the gentle wind and precarious vantage underscore the poet’s vulnerability. Both highlight human emotion mirrored by environmental cues, but Li Bai roars while Liu Yong hushes.
Short but evocative: the verses reject drama for gentle acceptance, softly illuminating the intangible sorrow that remains when illusions fade, leaving only a calm, introspective hush.
It resonates with modern travelers forced apart by distance. Those video calls that end too soon at midnight, the subsequent hush as one stands by a window, echoes precisely the calm heartbreak Liu Yong captures in these lines.