What to Read After the Rose and the Thorn
The Nightingale and the Rose
by Oscar Wilde
The Nightingale and the Rose was showtime published in 1888 as part of collection of children'southward stories entitled The Happy Prince and Other Tales. That drove of children'southward stories also includes: The Happy Prince, The Selfish Giant, The Devoted Friend, and The Remarkable Rocket.
"She said that she would dance with me if I brought her red roses," cried the immature Pupil; "but in all my garden at that place is no blood-red rose."
From her nest in the holm-oak tree the Nightingale heard him, and she looked out through the leaves, and wondered.
"No crimson rose in all my garden!" he cried, and his beautiful eyes filled with tears. "Ah, fon what little things does happiness depend! I take read all that the wise men accept written, and all the secrets of philosophy are mine, nevertheless for want of a reddish rose is my life fabricated wretched."
"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 at present I run across him. His pilus is dark equally the hyacinth-bloom, and his lips are scarlet as the rose of his desire; simply passion has made his face like pale ivory, and sorrow has set her seal upon his brow."
"The Prince gives a brawl to-morrow nighttime," murmured the young Student, "and my love will exist 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 volition lean her caput upon my shoulder, and her hand volition be clasped in mine. Only at that place is no reddish rose in my garden, so I shall sit down alone, and she will laissez passer me by. She volition have no heed of me, and my center volition 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 information technology, nor is it fix forth in the marketplace. It may not be purchased of the merchants, nor tin can it be weighed out in the residue for gold."
"The musicians will sit down in their gallery," said the immature Pupil, "and play upon their stringed instruments, and my love will trip the light fantastic toe to the sound of the harp and the violin. She volition dance so lightly that her feet will not impact the floor, and the courtiers in their gay dresses will throng round her. But with me she will not dance, for I take no blood-red rose to give her"; and he flung himself downward on the grass, and buried his confront 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 afterwards a sunbeam.
"Why, indeed?" whispered a Daisy to his neighbour, in a soft, low vocalism.
"He is weeping for a red rose," said the Nightingale.
"For a cherry-red rose?" they cried; "how very ridiculous!" and the picayune 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 idea nearly the mystery of Dear.
Suddenly she spread her brown wings for flight, and soared into the air. She passed through the grove similar a shadow, and similar a shadow she sailed across the garden.
In the middle of the grass-plot was standing a beautiful Rose-tree, and when she saw it she flew over to information technology, and lit upon a spray.
"Give me a red rose," she cried, "and I volition sing you my sweetest vocal."
Only the Tree shook its caput.
"My roses are white," it answered; "equally white every bit the cream of the sea, and whiter than the snowfall upon the mountain. Merely go to my brother who grows circular the old sun-dial, and maybe he will give you what you want."
And so the Nightingale flew over to the Rose-tree that was growing circular the former sun-dial.
"Give me a red rose," she cried, "and I will sing you lot my sweetest song."
Simply the Tree shook its head.
"My roses are yellow," it answered; "equally yellow every bit 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'due south window, and possibly he will give yous what you desire."
And then the Nightingale flew over to the Rose-tree that was growing beneath the Educatee'due south window.
"Requite me a carmine rose," she cried, "and I volition sing you my sweetest song."
Only the Tree shook its head.
"My roses are cherry," information technology answered, "equally red as the anxiety of the dove, and redder than the groovy 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."
"Ane red rose is all I want," cried the Nightingale, "only one cerise rose! Is there no manner past which I can get it?"
"There is a way," answered the Tree; "merely it is and so terrible that I dare not tell it to you lot."
"Tell it to me," said the Nightingale, "I am non afraid."
"If you want a carmine rose," said the Tree, "you must build information technology out of music by moonlight, and stain information technology with your own heart'due south-blood. You must sing to me with your chest confronting a thorn. All nighttime long y'all must sing to me, and the thorn must pierce your heart, and your life-claret must period into my veins, and become mine."
"Death is a groovy cost to pay for a red rose," cried the Nightingale, "and Life is very love to all. It is pleasant to sit in the dark-green wood, and to watch the Sun in his chariot of gold, and the Moon in her chariot of pearl. Sweet is the smell of the hawthorn, and sugariness 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 center of a human?"
And so she spread her brownish wings for flight, and soared into the air. She swept over the garden similar a shadow, and similar 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 non yet dry in his beautiful optics.
"Be happy," cried the Nightingale, "be happy; y'all shall have your red rose. I will build it out of music by moonlight, and stain it with my own heart'south-blood. All that I inquire of you in return is that you volition be a true lover, for Beloved is wiser than Philosophy, though she is wise, and mightier than Ability, though he is mighty. Flame- coloured are his wings, and coloured like flame is his trunk. His lips are sweet as honey, and his jiff is like frankincense."
The Student looked up from the grass, and listened, but he could not sympathize what the Nightingale was saying to him, for he simply knew the things that are written down in books.
But the Oak-tree understood, and felt distressing, for he was very fond of the little Nightingale who had built her nest in his branches.
"Sing me one last vocal," he whispered; "I shall feel very lonely when you are gone."
So the Nightingale sang to the Oak-tree, and her voice was like h2o bubbling from a silvery jar.
When she had finished her song the Pupil got upwards, and pulled a note-volume and a lead-pencil out of his pocket.
"She has course," he said to himself, as he walked away through the grove - "that cannot be denied to her; only has she got feeling? I am afraid not. In fact, she is like about artists; she is all style, without any sincerity. She would not sacrifice herself for others. She thinks only of music, and everybody knows that the arts are selfish. Withal, it must be admitted that she has some cute notes in her phonation. What a pity it is that they practise not mean anything, or practice any practical skillful." And he went into his room, and lay downwardly on his trivial pallet-bed, and began to think of his love; and, after a time, he barbarous asleep.
And when the Moon shone in the heavens the Nightingale flew to the Rose-tree, and fix her breast against the thorn. All night long she sang with her breast against the thorn, and the common 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 dearest in the center of a male child and a daughter. And on the acme-about spray of the Rose-tree there blossomed a marvellous rose, petal following petal, as vocal followed song. Pale was information technology, at first, equally the mist that hangs over the river - pale every bit the feet of the morning, and silver as the wings of the dawn. Equally the shadow of a rose in a mirror of argent, 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, niggling Nightingale," cried the Tree, "or the Twenty-four hours will come before the rose is finished."
And so the Nightingale pressed closer confronting the thorn, and louder and louder grew her song, for she sang of the nascency of passion in the soul of a human and a maid.
And a fragile flush of pinkish came into the leaves of the rose, like the affluent in the face up of the bridegroom when he kisses the lips of the bride. But the thorn had not yet reached her heart, so the rose's eye remained white, for but a Nightingale's eye's-blood tin 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 Twenty-four hours will come before the rose is finished."
So the Nightingale pressed closer confronting the thorn, and the thorn touched her middle, and a vehement pang of pain shot through her. Biting, bitter was the pain, and wilder and wilder grew her song, for she sang of the Love that is perfected past Death, of the Love that dies not in the tomb.
And the marvellous rose became ruddy, like the rose of the eastern sky. Cerise was the girdle of petals, and scarlet as a ruby was the heart.
Merely the Nightingale'due south voice grew fainter, and her piddling wings began to beat, and a film came over her optics. Fainter and fainter grew her vocal, and she felt something choking her in her pharynx.
Then she gave i last burst of music. The white Moon heard information technology, 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 time air. Echo diameter 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 bulletin to the body of water.
"Await, look!" cried the Tree, "the rose is finished now"; merely the Nightingale made no reply, for she was lying dead in the long grass, with the thorn in her center.
And at noon the Pupil opened his window and looked out.
"Why, what a wonderful piece of luck!" he cried; "hither is a red rose! I have never seen whatsoever rose like it in all my life. Information technology is so beautiful that I am certain it has a long Latin name"; and he leaned down and plucked it.
So he put on his hat, and ran up to the Professor'due south house with the rose in his hand.
The girl 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 lot a carmine rose," cried the Pupil. "Here is the reddest rose in all the earth. You volition wear it to-night adjacent your heart, and as we trip the light fantastic together it will tell you how I love you."
Only the girl frowned.
"I am afraid it will not go with my dress," she answered; "and, besides, the Chamberlain'south nephew has sent me some real jewels, and everybody knows that jewels cost far more than than flowers."
"Well, upon my give-and-take, you lot are very ungrateful," said the Student angrily; and he threw the rose into the street, where it savage into the gutter, and a cart-wheel went over it.
"Ungrateful!" said the daughter. "I tell you what, yous are very rude; and, subsequently all, who are you? Merely a Student. Why, I don't believe you have fifty-fifty got silver buckles to your shoes as the Chamberlain'southward nephew has"; and she got up from her chair and went into the house.
"What a silly thing Love is," said the Student as he walked away. "Information technology is non one-half as useful equally Logic, for information technology does not evidence 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 written report Metaphysics."
So he returned to his room and pulled out a smashing dusty book, and began to read.
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Source: https://americanliterature.com/author/oscar-wilde/short-story/the-nightingale-and-the-rose
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