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.Īnd the marvellous rose became crimson, like the rose of the eastern sky. So the Nightingale pressed closer against the thorn, and the thorn touched her heart, and a fierce pang of pain shot through her. “Press closer, little Nightingale,” cried the Tree, “or the Day will come before the rose is finished.” 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.Īnd the Tree cried to the Nightingale to press closer against the thorn. 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.Īnd 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.

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.īut the Tree cried to the Nightingale to press closer against the thorn.

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.

And on the top-most spray of the Rose-tree there blossomed a marvellous rose, petal following petal, as song followed song. She sang first of the birth of love in the heart of a boy and a girl. All night long she sang, and the thorn went deeper and deeper into her breast, and her life-blood ebbed away from her. All night long she sang with her breast against the thorn, and the cold crystal Moon leaned down and listened. 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.Īnd when the Moon shone in the heavens the Nightingale flew to the Rose-tree, and set her breast against the thorn. Still, it must be admitted that she has some beautiful notes in her voice. She thinks merely of music, and everybody knows that the arts are selfish. She would not sacrifice herself for others. In fact, she is like most artists she is all style, without any sincerity. “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. When she had finished her song the Student got up, and pulled a note-book and a lead-pencil out of his pocket.

The nightingale and rose by oscar wilde