Nightingale and rose

  ”She said she would dance with me if I brought her red roses,” cried the young student, “but I have searched all over the garden and there are no red roses.” The Nightingale heard him from her nest in the oak tree
  . If so, I looked out from among the leaves and thought about it in my heart.
  ”No red roses, not all the garden!” he cried mournfully, and tears filled his beautiful eyes. “Oh, what a small thing, it determines the happiness of a lifetime! I have read all the books of the sages, and I have insight into the mysteries of all the philosophies, but one red rose is missing, and my life is ruined.” “At last I found it.
  ” A true lover,” said the nightingale, “night after night I sang of him, though I did not know him; night after night I told his story to the stars, and now I see him at last. The color of his hair Deep as a hyacinth in full bloom, lips as red as the red roses he craves, but full of infatuation makes his face pale ivory, and sorrow locks his brows.” “The prince will have a ball tomorrow
  night murmured the young student, “my sweetheart will be there too. If I bring her a red rose, she’ll dance with me till dawn. If I bring her a red rose, I’ll send her In my arms, her head will be on my shoulder, and her hand will be held. But there are no red roses in my garden, so I can only sit alone and look at her Walk past me. She won’t want me now, and my heart will break.” ”
  This is indeed a true lover,” said the Nightingale. “What I sing hurts him; what I delight , made him suffer. Love is so beautiful, this love is more precious than emeralds, more precious than exquisite opals, it cannot be bought with pearl agate, it is not sold in the market, it is not traded in merchants, and it cannot be used The scales weighed for gold coins.”
  ”Musicians will sit on the dais by the dance floor,” said the young student, “playing the strings, and my love will dance to the music of the harps and violins. How lightly she dances, Her feet didn’t touch the ground. She was surrounded by courtiers dressed in fine clothes. But she won’t dance with me, because I don’t have red roses for her.” He threw himself on the grass and buried his face in his hands. ,Cried.
  ”Why is he crying?” asked a tiny green lizard as it ran past him with its tail up.
  ”Yes, why are you crying?” said a Butterfly, who was flapping his wings after a ray of sunshine.
  ”Yeah, why are you crying?” a daisy asked his neighbor quietly, softly and softly.
  ”He was crying for a red rose,” said Nightingale.
  ”Just for a red rose!” they cried. “This is so ridiculous!” The little lizard, who liked to sneer at first, immediately burst out laughing.
  But Nightingale understood the secret behind the student’s sadness, she sat silently on the oak tree, thinking about the mysterious power of love.
  Suddenly, she spread her brown wings and took off, flying high. She flew like a shadow through the bushes, like a shadow across the garden.
  There was a beautiful rose-tree in the middle of the lawn, and when she saw it, she flew towards it and landed on a small branch.
  ”Give me a red rose,” she cried, “and I will sing you my best song.”
  But the Rose Tree shook her head.
  ”My flowers are white,” he answered, “as white as the spray of the sea, and whiter than the snow on the mountains. Go to my brother, who grows by the old sundial, and the flowers you want he Maybe it will be for you.”
  So the nightingale flew to the rose tree that grew by the old sundial.
  ”Give me a red rose,” she cried, “and I will sing you my best song.”
  But the Rose Tree shook her head.
  ”My flowers are yellow,” it answered, “as yellow as the hair of a mermaid sitting on an amber throne, and yellower than the daffodils that bloomed in the meadow before the Mower came with his scythe. My brother, he grows under the student’s window, and he may give you the flowers you ask for.”
  So the nightingale flew to the rose tree growing under the student’s window.
  ”Give me a red rose,” she cried, “and I will sing you my best song.”
  But Rose Tree shook her head.
  ”My flowers are red,” he answered, “as red as a dove’s feet, and redder than the rippling fans of coral in caves under the sea. But winter freezes my veins, and frost My buds have withered, the wind and rain have broken my branches, and I won’t be able to bloom a single flower this year.” ”
  One red rose, just one,” Nightingale cried loudly, “I want only one red rose! Is there a way?”
  ”There is a way,” replied the Rose Tree, “but it is too terrible to tell you.” ”
  Tell me,” said Nightingale, “I am not afraid.”
  ”If you would have a red rose,” said the rose tree, “you must sing it in the moonlight, and stain it red with the blood of your own heart. You must sing to me against a thorn in my breast All night you must sing to me, and the thorn will pierce your heart, and your blood will flow into my veins and become mine.” “Death
  for a red rose is dear “” Nightingale said loudly, “life is very precious to everyone. How comfortable it is to be alive, sitting in the shade of a tree, looking at the sun driving the golden chariot, looking at the moon driving the pearl chariot. Ah, to smell the hawthorn blossoms, the bluebells hidden in the valley, the heath swaying on the hillside. But love is better than life, and besides, a bird’s heart is nothing compared to a man’s heart What?”
  And she spread her brown wings and took off, high up. She flew like a shadow across the garden, like a shadow through the bushes.
  The young student was still lying on the grass just now, with tears in his beautiful eyes.
  ”Be merry,” cried the Nightingale, “be merry, your red rose will be. I will sing it in the moonlight, I will dye it with the blood of my heart. My only What you want in return is that you always be a true lover, because love is wiser than philosophy, though philosophy is full of wisdom; because love is stronger than power, though power is strong enough. Like fire are the wings of love , bright as fire is the body of love. His lips are as sweet as honey, and his breath as sweet as frankincense.”
  The Student looked up from the grass and listened, but could not understand what the Nightingale was saying to him, for he only knew what was written in the book.
  But the oak understood, and was very sorry, for he was very fond of the little nightingale, who built her nest among his branches.
  ”Sing me one last song,” he said softly, “I shall be very lonely without you.”
  And the Nightingale sang to the Oak, and she sang as sweetly as water from a silver jug. flow out.
  When she had finished, the student stood up and took a notebook and a pencil from his pocket.
  ”She’s got style,” he said to himself, walking away through the trees—”that’s undeniable, but does she have emotion? I don’t think so. Seriously, she’s like most An artistic person has style but no sincerity. She will not sacrifice herself for others. All she thinks about is music. Everyone knows that art is selfish. However, it must be admitted that there is some beautiful rhyme in her voice What a pity, the rhyme is beautiful but meaningless, or not practical.” He entered his room, lay on his little bed, thought of his sweetheart, thought about it, and Fell asleep.

  As soon as the moon had risen in the sky, the nightingale flew to the rose-tree, and pressed her breast to a thorn. All night long she sang like that, with the thorn in her chest. The cold and clear moon bent down to listen to her singing. She sang like this throughout the night, the thorn pierced deeper and deeper in her chest, and the blood on her body gradually flowed away.
  She began to sing about the birth of love, born in the hearts of boys and girls from childhood sweethearts to first love. On the highest branch of the rose tree grew a strange flower, and as the song sang, the flower opened petal by petal. When the flowers first bloom, they are as white as mist over the river—white as the feet of the dawn, silvery as the wings of the dawn. Like a shadow in a silver mirror, like a reflection in a pool of clear water, the rose bloomed on the topmost branch of the tree.
  But the rose tree called to the nightingale to press harder on the thorn. “Keep it tighter, little Nightingale,” cried the Tree, “or it will be dawn before the flowers are in full bloom.”
  So the Nightingale pressed the thorn tighter, and sang louder and louder, for she sang until Passion is born, born in the souls of boys and girls.
  A delicate blush rose over the petals of the rose, like the blush on the face of the bridegroom when he kisses the lips of the bride. But the thorn had not pierced her heart yet, so the flower’s heart was still white, for only the blood that flows from the nightingale’s heart can stain the rose’s heart red.
  The tree told the nightingale to hit the thorn harder. “Press harder, little Nightingale,” cried the Tree, “or the sun will dawn before the flowers are in full bloom.”
  So the Nightingale pressed the thorn still tighter, and it pierced her heart, and a sharp pain pierced through her. whole body. It hurts, it hurts, it hurts. Sing, sing, the nightingale’s song grows louder and more forgetful, for she sings of love made perfect by death, of love that dies not in the grave.
  The strange rose turned red, red like the petals of the morning glow in full bloom in the east. The crimson petals wrap around a ruby ​​crimson heart.
  However, Nightingale’s voice became lower and lower, her tiny wings began to flutter, and a film covered her eyes. Her singing was weaker and weaker, and she felt something stuck in her throat.
  So, she broke out into the final song. Mingyue heard it, and forgot that it was already dawn, and was still lingering in the air. The red rose heard it, and its ecstasy made it tremble all over, and it opened its petals against the clear morning wind. The echo flew to her purple cave in the mountains with the song, and woke the shepherd boys from their deep sleep. The song floated through the rippling reeds on the river, and the reeds carried their message to the sea.
  ”Look, look!” cried the Rose Tree, “the flowers are ready.” But the Nightingale made no answer, and she lay dead in the deep grass, with the thorn in her heart.
  At noon the student opened the window and looked out.
  ”Why, such good luck!” he cried, “a red rose! I have never seen such a rose in my life. It is so beautiful, and must have a long Latin name.” He said As he spoke, he leaned out and picked the flowers.
  Then he put on his hat and ran all the way to the professor’s house with the rose in his hand.
  The professor’s daughter was sitting in the doorway with a ball of blue silk rolled up in her hand, and her puppy was lying at her feet.
  ”You said you would dance with me if I brought you a red rose,” cried the student. “Here is the reddest red rose in the world. You can wear it close to your heart tonight.” Then, when we dance together, it will tell you how much I love you.”
  But the girl frowned.
  ”I’m afraid the flowers won’t match my dress,” she replied, “and the Minister’s nephew has sent me some real jewels, which are known to cost more than flowers.” “Well, then
  , With all due respect, you are ungrateful and ignorant of good and bad.” The student said angrily, and threw the rose into the street, where it fell into the ditch beside the road, and was run over by the cart wheels.
  ”Ingratitude!” said the girl. “Tell you, you’re so rough. After all, who are you? A student. Why, I don’t believe you have silver buckles on your shoes, the Minister of the Interior.” My nephew has it.” She got up from her chair and went into the room.
  ”Love, how stupid this thing is,” said the student as he walked, “Romantic is far less useful than logical reasoning, because love doesn’t prove anything, it always tells people something illusory, and makes people believe in things that don’t exist .In fact, the so-called love is very impractical, and in today’s world, being practical is everything, I’d better go back and read philosophy and study metaphysics.” So he went back to his room and took out
  a book full of dust. The big thick book, read it.

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