“Be happy，” cried the Nightingale， “be happy； you shallhave your red rose. I will build it out of music by moonlight，and stain it with my own heart’s-blood. All that I ask of youin return is that you will be a true lover， for Love is wiserthan Philosophy， though she is wise， and mightier than Power，though he is mighty. Flame-coloured are his wings， andcoloured like flame is his body. His lips are sweet as honey，and his breath is like frankincense.”
The Student looked up from the grass， and listened， but hecould not understand what the Nightingale was saying to him，for he only knew the things that are written down in books.
But the Oak-tree understood， and felt sad， for he was veryfond of the little Nightingale who had built her nest in hisbranches.
“Sing me one last song，” he whispered； “I shall feel verylonely when you are gone.”
So the Nightingale sang to the Oak-tree， and her voice waslike water bubbling from a silver jar.
When she had finished her song the Student got up， andpulled a note-book and a lead-pencil out of his pocket.
“She has form，” he said to himself， as he walked awaythrough the grove—“that cannot be denied to her； but has shegot feeling？ I am afraid not. In fact， she is like most artists；she is all style， without any sincerity. She would not sacrificeherself for others. She thinks merely of music， and everybodyknows that the arts are selfish. Still， it must be admitted thatshe has some beautiful notes in her voice. What a pity it is thatthey do not mean anything， or do any practical good.” And hewent into his room， and lay down on his little pallet-bed， andbegan to think of his love； and， after a time， he fell asleep.
And when the Moon shone in the heavens the Nightingaleflew to the Rose-tree， and set her breast against the thorn. Allnight long she sang with her breast against the thorn， and thecold crystal Moon leaned down and listened. All night longshe 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 love in the heart of a boyand a girl. And on the top-most spray of the Rose-tree thereblossomed a marvellous rose， petal following petal， as songfollowed song. Pale was it， at first， as the mist that hangs overthe river—pale as the feet of the morning， and silver as thewings of the dawn. As the shadow of a rose in a mirror ofsilver， as the shadow of a rose in a water-pool， so was the rosethat blossomed on the topmost spray of the Tree.
But the Tree cried to the Nightingale to press closer againstthe thorn. “Press closer， little Nightingale，” cried the Tree， “orthe Day will come before the rose is finished.”
So the Nightingale pressed closer against the thorn， andlouder and louder grew her song， for she sang of the birth ofpassion in the soul of a man and a maid.
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 thelips of the bride. But the thorn had not yet reached her heart，so the rose’s heart remained white， for only a Nightingale’sheart’s-blood can crimson the heart of a rose.
And the Tree cried to the Nightingale to press closer againstthe thorn. “Press closer， little Nightingale，” cried the Tree， “orthe Day will come before the rose is finished.”
So the Nightingale pressed closer against the thorn， and thethorn touched her heart， and a fierce pang of pain shot throughher. Bitter， bitter was the pain， and wilder and wilder grew hersong， for she sang of the Love that is perfected by Death， ofthe Love that dies not in the tomb.
And the marvellous rose became crimson， like the rose ofthe eastern sky. Crimson was the girdle of petals， and crimsonas a ruby was the heart.
But the Nightingale’s voice grew fainter， and her little wingsbegan to beat， and a film came over her eyes. Fainter andfainter grew her song， and she felt something choking her inher throat.
Then she gave one last burst of music. The white Moonheard it， and she forgot the dawn， and lingered on in the sky.
The red rose heard it， and it trembled all over with ecstasy， andopened its petals to the cold morning air. Echo bore it to herpurple cavern in the hills， and woke the sleeping shepherdsfrom their dreams. It floated through the reeds of the river， andthey carried its message to the sea.
“Look， look！” cried the Tree， “the rose is finished now”； butthe Nightingale made no answer， for she was lying dead in thelong grass， with the thorn in her heart.
And at noon the Student opened his window and looked out.
“Why， what a wonderful piece of luck！” he cried； “here is ared rose！ I have never seen any rose like it in all my life. It isso beautiful that I am sure it has a long Latin name”； and heleaned down and plucked it.
Then he put on his hat， and ran up to the Professor’s housewith the rose in his hand.
The daughter of the Professor was sitting in the doorwaywinding blue silk on a reel， and her little dog was lying at herfeet.
“You said that you would dance with me if I brought youa red rose，” cried the Student. “Here is the reddest rose in allthe world. You will wear it to-night next your heart， and as wedance together it will tell you how I love you.”
But the girl frowned.
“I am afraid it will not go with my dress，” she answered；“and，besides， the Chamberlain’s nephew has sent me some realjewels， and everybody knows that jewels cost far more thanflowers.”
“Well， upon my word， you are very ungrateful，” said theStudent angrily； and he threw the rose into the street， where itfell into the gutter， and a cart-wheel went over it.
“Ungrateful！” said the girl. “I tell you what， you are veryrude； and， after all， who are you？ Only a Student. Why， I don’tbelieve you have even got silver buckles to your shoes as theChamberlain’s nephew has”； and she got up from her chair andwent into the house.
“What I a silly thing Love is，” said the Student as he walkedaway. “It is not half as useful as Logic， for it does not proveanything， and it is always telling one of things that are notgoing to happen， and making one believe things that are nottrue. In fact， it is quite unpractical， and， as in this age to bepractical is everything， I shall go back to Philosophy and studyMetaphysics.”
So he returned to his room and pulled out a great dusty book，and began to read.