All night long you must sing to me, and the thorn must pierce your heart, and your life-blood must flow into my veins, and become mine.” You must sing to me with your breast against a thorn. “If you want a red rose,” said the Tree, “you must build it out of music by moonlight, and stain it with your own heart’s-blood. “Tell it to me,” said the Nightingale, “I am not afraid.” “There is away,” answered the Tree “but it is so terrible that I dare not tell it to you.” “One red rose is all I want,” cried the Nightingale, “only one red rose! Is there no way by which I can get it?” 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.” “My roses are red,” it answered, “as red as the feet of the dove, and redder than the great fans of coral that wave and wave in the ocean-cavern. So the Nightingale flew over to the Rose-tree that was growing beneath the Student’s window. But go to my brother who grows beneath the Student’s window, and perhaps he will give you what you want.” “My roses are yellow,” it answered “as yellow as 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. “Give me a red rose,” she cried, “and I will sing you my sweetest song.” So the Nightingale flew over to the Rose-tree that was growing round the old sun-dial. But go to my brother who grows round the old sun-dial, and perhaps he will give you what you want.”
0 Comments
Leave a Reply. |