When People told themselves their past with stories,
explained their present with stories,
foretold the future with stories,
the best place by the fire was kept for ...

~The Nightingale and the Rose~

"She said that she would dance with me if I brought
her red roses," cried the young Student;
"but in all my garden there is no red rose."

From her nest in the holm-oak tree the Nightingale heard
him, and she looked out through the leaves, and wondered.

"No red rose in all my garden!" he cried, and his
beautiful eyes filled with tears. "Ah, on what little
things does happiness depend! I have read all that the
wise men have written, and all the secrets of philosophy
are mine, yet for want of a red rose is my life made wretched."

Charles Robinson~ pass me by 

"Here at last is a true lover," said the Nightingale.
"Night after night have I sung of him, though I knew him
not: night after night have I told his story to the stars,
and now I see him. His hair is dark as the hyacinth-blossom,
and his lips are red as the rose of his desire; but passion
has made his face like pale ivory, and sorrow
has set her seal upon his brow."

"The Prince gives a ball to-morrow night," murmured
the young Student, "and my love will be of the company.
If I bring her a red rose she will dance with me till dawn.
If I bring her a red rose, I shall hold her in my arms,
and she will lean her head upon my shoulder, and
her hand will be clasped in mine. But there is no red
rose in my garden, so I shall sit lonely, and she will pass
me by. She will have no heed of me, and my heart will break."

"Here indeed is the true lover," said the Nightingale.
"What I sing of, he suffers - what is joy to me, to him is pain.
Surely Love is a wonderful thing. It is more precious
than emeralds, and dearer than fine opals. Pearls and pomegranates cannot buy it, nor is it set forth in the
marketplace. It may not be purchased of the merchants,
nor can it be weighed out in the balance for gold."

"The musicians will sit in their gallery," said the young
Student, "and play upon their stringed instruments, and
my love will dance to the sound of the harp and
the violin. She will dance so lightly that her feet will not
touch the floor, and the courtiers in their gay dresses
will throng round her. But with me she will not dance,
for I have no red rose to give her"; and he flung himself
down on the grass, and buried his face in his hands, and wept.

"Why is he weeping?" asked a little Green Lizard,
as he ran past him with his tail in the air.
"Why, indeed?" said a Butterfly, who was fluttering
about after a sunbeam.
"Why, indeed?" whispered a Daisy to his neighbour,
in a soft, low voice.
"He is weeping for a red rose," said the Nightingale.

"For a red rose?" they cried; "how very ridiculous!"
and the little Lizard, who was something of a cynic,
laughed outright.

But the Nightingale understood the secret of the
Student's sorrow, and she sat silent in the oak-tree,
and thought about the mystery of Love.

Suddenly she spread her brown wings for flight,
and soared into the air. She passed through the grove
like a shadow, and like a shadow she sailed across the garden.

In the centre of the grass-plot was standing a beautiful Rose-tree, and when she saw it she flew over to it, and lit upon a spray.

"Give me a red rose," she cried, "
and I will sing you my sweetest song."
But the Tree shook its head.

"My roses are white," it answered; "as white as the
foam of the sea, and whiter than the snow upon the
mountain. But go to my brother who grows round the old
sun-dial, and perhaps he will give you what you want."

So the Nightingale flew over to the Rose-tree
that was growing round the old sun-dial.
"Give me a red rose," she cried, "and I will sing
you my sweetest song."

But the Tree shook its head.

"My roses are yellow," it answered; "as yellow as
the hair of the mermaiden who sits upon an amber
throne, and yellower than the daffodil that blooms
in the meadow before the mower comes with his scythe.
But go to my brother who grows beneath the
Student's window, and perhaps he will give you what you want."

So the Nightingale flew over to the Rose-tree that
was growing beneath the Student's window.
"Give me a red rose," she cried, "and I will
sing you my sweetest song."

But the Tree shook its head.

Charles Robinson~Honey

"My roses are red," it answered, "as red as the feet
of the dove, and redder than the great fans of coral that
wave and wave in the ocean-cavern. But the winter has
chilled my veins, and the frost has nipped my buds,
and the storm has broken my branches,
and I shall have no roses at all this year."

"One red rose is all I want," cried the Nightingale,
"only one red rose! Is there no way by which I can get it?"

"There is away," answered the Tree; "but it is so
terrible that I dare not tell it to you."

"Tell it to me," said the Nightingale, "I am not afraid."

"If you want a red rose," said the Tree,
"you must build it out of music by moonlight,
and stain it with your own heart's-blood.
You must sing to me with your breast against a thorn.
All night long you must sing to me, and the thorn
must pierce your heart, and your life-blood
must flow into my veins, and become mine."

"Death is a great price to pay for a red rose,"
cried the Nightingale, "and Life is very dear to all.
It is pleasant to sit in the green wood, and to watch the
Sun in his chariot of gold, and the Moon in her
chariot of pearl. Sweet is the scent of the hawthorn,
and sweet are the bluebells that hide in the valley,
and the heather that blows on the hill.
Yet Love is better than Life, and what is the
heart of a bird compared to the heart of a man?"

So she spread her brown wings for flight, and soared
into the air. She swept over the garden like a shadow,
and like a shadow she sailed through the grove.

The young Student was still lying on the grass,
where she had left him, and the tears were
not yet dry in his beautiful eyes.

"Be happy," cried the Nightingale, "be happy;
you shall have your red rose. I will build it out of
music by moonlight, and stain it with my own heart's-blood.
All that I ask of you in return is that you will be a
true lover, for Love is wiser than Philosophy, though
she is wise, and mightier than Power, though he is
mighty. Flame- coloured are his wings, and coloured
like flame is his body. His lips are sweet as honey,
and his breath is like frankincense."

The Student looked up from the grass, and listened,
but he could not understand what the Nightingale
was saying to him, for he only knew the
things that are written down in books.

But the Oak-tree understood, and felt sad, for he was
very fond of the little Nightingale who had
built her nest in his branches.
"Sing me one last song," he whispered;
"I shall feel very lonely when you are gone."
So the Nightingale sang to the Oak-tree, and
her voice was like water bubbling from a silver jar.

When she had finished her song the Student got up,
and pulled a note-book and a lead-pencil out of his pocket.

"She has form," he said to himself, as he walked away
through the grove - "that cannot be denied to her;
but has she got feeling? I am afraid not. In fact,
she is like most artists; she is all style, without any
sincerity. She would not sacrifice herself for others.
She thinks merely of music, and everybody knows
that the arts are selfish. Still, it must be admitted
that she has some beautiful notes in her voice.
What a pity it is that they do not mean anything,
or do any practical good." And he went into his room,
and lay down on his little pallet-bed, and began to
think of his love; and, after a time, he fell asleep.

And when the Moon shone in the heavens the Nightingale
flew to the Rose-tree, and set her breast against the
thorn. All night long she sang with her breast against
the thorn, and the cold crystal Moon leaned down
and listened. All night long she sang, and the thorn
went deeper and deeper into her breast, and her
life-blood ebbed away from her.

She sang first of the birth of love in the heart of a
boy and a girl. And on the top-most spray of the
Rose-tree there blossomed a marvellous rose,
petal following petal, as song followed song.
Pale was it, at first, as the mist that hangs over the
river - pale as the feet of the morning, and silver as
the wings of the dawn. As the shadow of a rose in a
mirror of silver, as the shadow of a rose in a
water-pool, so was the rose that blossomed
on the topmost spray of the Tree.

But the Tree cried to the Nightingale to press
closer against the thorn. "Press closer, little Nightingale,"
cried the Tree, "or the Day will come before the rose is finished."

So the Nightingale pressed closer against the thorn,
and louder and louder grew her song, for she sang
of the birth of passion in the soul of a man and a maid.

And a delicate flush of pink came into the leaves
of the rose, like the flush in the face of the bridegroom
when he kisses the lips of the bride. But the thorn had not yet reached her heart, so the rose's heart remained white,
for only a Nightingale's heart's-blood can
crimson the heart of a rose.

And the Tree cried to the Nightingale to press closer
against the thorn. "Press closer, little Nightingale," cried the Tree, "or the Day will come before the rose is finished."

So the Nightingale pressed closer against the thorn,
and the thorn touched her heart, and a fierce pang
of pain shot through her. Bitter, bitter was the pain,
and wilder and wilder grew her song, for she sang of
the Love that is perfected by Death, of the
Love that dies not in the tomb.

And the marvellous rose became crimson,
like the rose of the eastern sky. Crimson was the
girdle of petals, and crimson as a ruby was the heart.

But the Nightingale's voice grew fainter, and her little
wings began to beat, and a film came over her eyes.
Fainter and fainter grew her song, and she felt
something choking her in her throat.

Then she gave one last burst of music.
The white Moon heard it, and she forgot the dawn,
and lingered on in the sky. The red rose heard it,
and it trembled all over with ecstasy, and opened
its petals to the cold morning air.
Echo bore it to her purple cavern in the hills,
and woke the sleeping shepherds from their dreams.
It floated through the reeds of the river, and
they carried its message to the sea.

"Look, look!" cried the Tree, "the rose is finished now";
but the Nightingale made no answer, for she was lying
dead in the long grass, with the thorn in her heart.

And at noon the Student opened his window and looked out.

"Why, what a wonderful piece of luck!" he cried;
"here is a red rose! I have never seen any rose like it
in all my life. It is so beautiful that I am sure it has a
long Latin name"; and he leaned down and plucked it.

Then he put on his hat, and ran up to the
Professor's house with the rose in his hand.

The daughter of the Professor was sitting in the doorway
winding blue silk on a reel, and her little dog was lying at her feet.

"You said that you would dance with me if I brought
you a red rose," cried the Student. "Here is the reddest
rose in all the world. You will wear it to-night next
your heart, and as we dance together it will
tell you how I love you."

But the girl frowned.

"I am afraid it will not go with my dress,"
she answered; "and, besides, the Chamberlain's nephew
has sent me some real jewels, and everybody
knows that jewels cost far more than flowers."

"Well, upon my word, you are very ungrateful,"
said the Student angrily; and he threw the rose into the street, where it fell into the gutter, and a cart-wheel went over it.

"Ungrateful!" said the girl. "I tell you what, you are
very rude; and, after all, who are you? Only a Student.
Why, I don't believe you have even got silver buckles
to your shoes as the Chamberlain's nephew has"; and
she got up from her chair and went into the house.

"What I a silly thing Love is," said the Student
as he walked away. "It is not half as useful as Logic,
for it does not prove anything, and it is always telling
one of things that are not going to happen, and making
one believe things that are not true. In fact,
it is quite unpractical, and, as in this age to be
practical is everything, I shall go back to
Philosophy and study Metaphysics."

So he returned to his room and pulled out a great
dusty book, and began to read.

By Oscar Wilde

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