The Nightingale and the Rose

Oscar Wilde

A young student was standing in his garden. He was crying.

“She promised she would love me if I brought her a red rose,” he said sadly.

“But there is not a single red rose in the whole garden.”

A Nightingale was sitting in an oak tree above him. She heard his words and looked down with curiosity. She had never seen anyone so unhappy for such a small thing.

“I have read many books,” the student continued, “and I know many things. But I am so sad I do not have a red rose.”

The Nightingale listened carefully.

“At last,” she said to herself, “I see a true romantic. Love is more precious than gold or jewels.”

The student sat on the grass and cried.

A butterfly passed by and laughed at him, but the Nightingale understood his pain. She flew across the garden to look for a red rose.

First, she asked a rose tree with white flowers.

“I cannot help you,” said the tree. “My roses are white.”

Then she flew to another tree with yellow roses.

“I cannot help you either,” said the tree.

Finally, she flew to a rose tree beneath the student’s window.

“My roses are red,” said the tree, “but the winter has been too cold. I have no roses this year.”

The Nightingale felt sad.

“Is there no way to make a red rose?” she asked.

“There is a way,” said the tree, “but it is very painful. You must sing all night with your heart against a thorn. Your blood must give life to the rose.”

The Nightingale was silent for a moment.

“Death is a high price,” she said. “But love is greater than life.”

That night, under the moonlight, the Nightingale pressed her heart against the thorn and sang. She sang of love, hope, and sacrifice.

Slowly, a rose began to grow. It became red as her song grew weaker. By morning, the rose was finished. The Nightingale lay dead in the grass.

When the student opened his window, he saw the rose.

“How lucky I am!” he said and picked the rose.

He went to see the girl and offered her the rose. But she shook her head.

“I don’t want it anymore,” she said.

“Someone else gave me jewels, and they are more valuable than flowers.”

Angrily, the student threw the rose into the street.

“Love is foolish,” he said. “It is not useful at all.”

He went back to his room, opened an old book, and returned to philosophy.