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.
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