When she had finished her song the
Student got lip, 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 topmost spray of the Rose-tree there
blossomed a marvellous rose, petal following petal, as song followed song. Yale
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.
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