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第9部分(第2页)

So the Nightingale sang to the Oak…tree, and her voice was like water bubbling from a silver jar。

When she had finished her song the Student got up, and pulled a note…book and a lead…pencil out of his pocket。

“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。 In fact, she is like most artists; she is all style, without any sincerity。 She would not sacrifice herself for others。 She thinks merely of music, and everybody knows that the arts are selfish。 Still, it must be admitted that she has some beautiful notes in her voice。 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。

And when the Moon shone in the heavens the Nightingale flew to the Rose…tree, and set her breast against the thorn。 All night long she sang with her breast against the thorn, and the 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 love in the heart of a boy and a girl。 And on the top…most spray of the Rose…tree there blossomed a marvellous rose, petal following petal, as song followed song。 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。 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。

But the Tree cried to the Nightingale to press closer against the thorn。 “Press closer, little Nightingale,” cried the Tree, “or the Day will e before the rose is finished。”

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。

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 the lips of the bride。 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。

And the Tree cried to the Nightingale to press closer against the thorn。 “Press closer, little Nightingale,” cried the Tree, “or the Day will e before the rose is finished。”

So the Nightingale pressed closer against the thorn, and the thorn touched her heart, and a fierce pang of pain shot through her。 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。

And the marvellous rose became crimson, like the rose of the eastern sky。 Crimson was the girdle of petals, and crimson as a ruby was the heart。

But the Nightingale’s voice grew fainter, and her little wings began to beat, and a film came over her eyes。 Fainter and fainter grew her song, and she felt something choking her in her throat。

Then she gave one last burst of music。 The white Moon heard it, 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 air。 Echo bore 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 message to the sea。

“Look, look!” cried the Tree, “the rose is finished now;” but the Nightingale made no answer, for she was lying dead in the long 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 a red rose! I have never seen any rose like it in all my life。 It is so beautiful that I am sure it has a long Latin name;” and he leaned down and plucked it。

Then he put on his hat, and ran up to the Professor’s house with the rose in his hand。

The daughter 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 a red rose,” cried the Student。 “Here is the reddest rose in all the world。 You will wear it tonight next your heart, and as we dance 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 real jewels, and everybody knows that jewels cost far more than flowers。”

“Well, upon my word, you are very ungrateful,” said the Student angrily; and he threw the rose into the street, where it fell into the gutter, and a cart…wheel went over it。

“Ungrateful!” said the girl。 “I tell you what, you are very rude; and, after all, who are you? Only a Student。 Why, I don’t believe you have even got silver buckles to your shoes as the Chamberlain’s nephew has;” and she got up from her chair and went into the house。

“What I a silly thing Love is,” said the Student as he walked away。 “It is not half as useful as Logic, for it does not prove 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 study Metaphysics。”

So he returned to his room and pulled out a great dusty book, and began to read。

★、The Happy Prince

High above the city, on a tall column, stood the statue of the Happy Prince。 He was gilded all over with thin leaves of fine gold, for eyes he had two bright sapphires, and a large red ruby glowed on his sword…hilt。

He was very much admired indeed。 “He is as beautiful as a weathercock,” remarked one of the Town Councillors who wished to gain a reputation for having artistic tastes; “only not quite so useful,” he added, fearing lest people should think him unpractical, which he really was not。

“Why can’t you be like the Happy Prince?” asked a sensible mother of her little boy who was crying for the moon。 “The Happy Prince never dreams of crying for anything。”

“I am gl

网游--武林  邪帝苍龙传  糖家制药 作者:雕白沐(键盘网游文)  写自己的同人文有什么问题!  边界  修道歧路  独闯修行道  静默之时  笑云弄风(网游) 作者 凉拖  请给我好点的情敌  盛世烟火(完结)  梦醒梦灭梦还在  我的赛博精神病是任务提示  转生成为杀手之王,召唤诸界杀手  小说大纲里的女主觉醒后  网游之魔兽猎人传奇  指间的传奇  幻想大陆  季节性症状  血瞳灰视  

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