"She promised she'd dance with me if I brought her a red rose," cried a young heart-broken student. "But there's not one in this whole garden."
From her nest in the oak tree, the Nightingale heard him, and she looked out through the leaves, and wondered.
"Not a single red rose anywhere!" he cried, and his eyes filled with tears. "It's amazing how happiness depends on such little things. I've read all that the wise men have written, and all the secrets of philosophy, but my life is wretched because of a red rose."
"Here at last is a true romantic," said the Nightingale. "Night after night I have sung of him, though I didn't realize it. Night after night I have told his story to the stars, and now I see him."
"The Prince gives a ball tomorrow night," murmured the young student, "and my love will be there. If I bring her a red rose, she'll dance with me till dawn. If I bring her a red rose, I'll get to hold her in my arms, and she'll lean her head on my shoulder, and her hand will be clasped in mine. But there's no red rose in the garden, and so instead, I'll sit by myself while she passes me by. She'll pay no attention to me, and my heart will break."
"Here indeed is a true romantic," said the Nightingale. "Surely love is a wonderful thing. It's more precious than emeralds and diamonds and gold."
"The musicians will play their instruments," said the student. "And my love will dance to the sound of the violin. But she won't dance with me, because I have no red rose to give her." And he flung himself down on the grass, buried his face in his hands, and wept.
"Why is he weeping?" asked a butterfly, who was fluttering about after a sunbeam.
"He's weeping for a red rose," said the Nightingale.
"For a red rose?" cried the butterfly. "How ridiculous!"
But the Nightingale understood the secret of the student's sorrow, and she sat silently in the oak tree, and thought about the mystery of love. Suddenly, she spread her brown wings and soared into the air. She passed through the grove like a shadow, and sailed across the garden. In the center of the grass stood a beautiful rose tree, and when she saw it, she flew over and landed on a branch.
"Give me a red rose," she cried, "and I'll sing you my sweetest song."
But the tree shook its head. "My roses are white," it said. "But go to my brother who grows near the fountain, and perhaps he'll give you what you want."
So the Nightingale flew over to the rose tree by the fountain.
"Give me a red rose," she cried, "and I will sing you my sweetest song."
But the tree shook its head. "My roses are yellow," it answered. "But go to my brother who grows beneath the student's window, and perhaps he'll give you what you want."
From her nest in the oak tree, the Nightingale heard him, and she looked out through the leaves, and wondered.
"Not a single red rose anywhere!" he cried, and his eyes filled with tears. "It's amazing how happiness depends on such little things. I've read all that the wise men have written, and all the secrets of philosophy, but my life is wretched because of a red rose."
"Here at last is a true romantic," said the Nightingale. "Night after night I have sung of him, though I didn't realize it. Night after night I have told his story to the stars, and now I see him."
"The Prince gives a ball tomorrow night," murmured the young student, "and my love will be there. If I bring her a red rose, she'll dance with me till dawn. If I bring her a red rose, I'll get to hold her in my arms, and she'll lean her head on my shoulder, and her hand will be clasped in mine. But there's no red rose in the garden, and so instead, I'll sit by myself while she passes me by. She'll pay no attention to me, and my heart will break."
"Here indeed is a true romantic," said the Nightingale. "Surely love is a wonderful thing. It's more precious than emeralds and diamonds and gold."
"The musicians will play their instruments," said the student. "And my love will dance to the sound of the violin. But she won't dance with me, because I have no red rose to give her." And he flung himself down on the grass, buried his face in his hands, and wept.
"Why is he weeping?" asked a butterfly, who was fluttering about after a sunbeam.
"He's weeping for a red rose," said the Nightingale.
"For a red rose?" cried the butterfly. "How ridiculous!"
But the Nightingale understood the secret of the student's sorrow, and she sat silently in the oak tree, and thought about the mystery of love. Suddenly, she spread her brown wings and soared into the air. She passed through the grove like a shadow, and sailed across the garden. In the center of the grass stood a beautiful rose tree, and when she saw it, she flew over and landed on a branch.
"Give me a red rose," she cried, "and I'll sing you my sweetest song."
But the tree shook its head. "My roses are white," it said. "But go to my brother who grows near the fountain, and perhaps he'll give you what you want."
So the Nightingale flew over to the rose tree by the fountain.
"Give me a red rose," she cried, "and I will sing you my sweetest song."
But the tree shook its head. "My roses are yellow," it answered. "But go to my brother who grows beneath the student's window, and perhaps he'll give you what you want."
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