Nightingale and Rose

“She said that as long as I gave her a red rose, she would dance with me,” the young student said loudly, “but there is not even a red rose in my garden.” “As long as…just… “The logic of love is the most direct and naive. But even under these conditions, it can’t be done-love is precious and needs a considerable price.

A hint: Red Rose can only grow in the lover’s “own” garden, but it cannot be bought or come.

Nightingale heard him in her nest on the evergreen oak tree, and she looked out among the green leaves, very surprised.

“I can’t find a red rose in my entire garden,” he said with tears, his beautiful eyes filled with tears, “Ah, I can’t think that happiness is tied to such small things! I have read about those cleverness. I know what people write and all the secrets of learning, but because of the loss of a red rose, my life has become very unfortunate.”

“Now I have found a loyal lover,” Nightingale muttered to herself, “Although I don’t know him, I sing to him every night. I tell his story to the stars night after night, and now I see it with my own eyes. He’s here. His hair is as black as a blooming hyacinth, and his lips are as red as the rose he wants. But enthusiasm makes his face look like a pale ivory, and sorrow has already imprinted on his eyebrows.”

“The prince is going to have a dancing party tomorrow night,” the young student murmured, “my beloved is going to the party. If I bring a red rose to her, she will dance with me until dawn. If I give her one. With a red rose, I can put my arms around her, let her head rest on my shoulder, her hand in my hand. But there is no red rose in my garden, I have to sit there lonely, She will walk past me and ignore me. If she ignores me, my heart will break.”

“This is indeed a loyal lover,” said Nightingale. “What I sing is what makes him suffer. What is happy to me is painful to him. Love is really an amazing thing. It is. It is more precious than emeralds, and more valuable than opals. You can’t buy it with jewellery. It is not displayed on the market. It cannot be bought from a merchant, nor can it be exchanged for weight.”

“Musicians will sit in their corridors,” the young student said. “Playing their stringed instruments, my beloved will dance to the sound of the harp and violin. She will dance so briskly, as if her feet The courtiers in beautiful clothes would surround her as if they were not on the floor. But she wouldn’t dance with me because I didn’t have a red rose to bring her.” So he threw himself on the grass, covering his face with his hands and crying. stand up.

“Why is he crying?” a little green lizard raised its tail and ran past the students, asking.

“Indeed, for what?” said a butterfly, who was flying with a ray of sunlight.

“Indeed, for what?” a daisy whispered gently to his neighbor.

“He was crying for a red rose!” Nightingale replied.

“For a red rose!” they shouted, “How ridiculous!” The little lizard had always liked ridicules, and he laughed loudly.

Only Nightingale understands the troubles of love-only she can tell the meaning of love. But Nightingale, the soul who understands love the most, is the loneliest. 

She has no love—not even a friend or someone to talk to.

However, Nightingale understood the student’s troubles, and she sat silently on the oak branch, thinking about the incredible love.

Suddenly she spread her brown wings and flew into the air. She walked through the woods like a shadow, and flew across the garden like a shadow.

There was a beautiful rose tree in the middle of the grass. She saw the tree and flew over and perched on one of its branches.

“Give me a red rose,” she said loudly, “I want to sing you my best song.”

But the tree shook its head.

“My rose is white,” it replied, “as white as the waves in the sea, whiter than the snow on the top of the mountain. Go find my brother who grows beside the old sundial, maybe he will take what you want Here you are.” Asked for the first time.

The nightingale flew to the rose tree growing beside the sundial.

“Give me a red rose,” she said loudly, “I want to sing you my best song.”

But the tree shook its head.

“My rose is yellow,” it replied, “like the hair of a mermaid sitting on an amber throne, and yellower than the narcissus that bloomed on the grass before the mower came with a scythe. Go find my long one. Brother under the student window, maybe he will give you what you want.” The second time.

Nightingale flew to the rose tree growing under the student’s window.

“Give me a red rose,” she said loudly, “I want to sing you my best song.”

But the tree shook its head.

“My rose is red,” it replied, “as red as a dove’s foot, and redder than a large coral fan flapping in an ocean cave. But the winter has frozen my blood vessels, and the frost has frozen mine. Buds, wind and rain have discounted my branches, and I won’t bloom again this year.” The third time-the overlapping rhetoric used in fairy tales, is like the three stacks of Yangguan. It was only the third time to find what I wanted. This is also the rhetoric of a fairy tale, suggesting that the goal is difficult. ——However, it will not bloom again this year.

“I only need a red rose,” Nightingale cried, “just a red rose! Is there any way I can get it?”

“There is a way,” the tree replied, “but it’s horrible, I dare not tell you.”

“Tell me,” said Nightingale, “I’m not afraid.”

“If you want a red rose,” said the tree, “you must create it with music under the moonlight, and dye it red with your blood. You must hold your breast against a thorn in me and give it I sing. You must sing to me all night, and the thorn must pierce your heart. Your blood must flow into my veins and become my blood.” Death and Rose, Blood and Life, Wilde’s imagery is beautiful, romantic and cruel.

“It’s too expensive to exchange death for a red rose,” Nightingale said loudly, “Life is precious to everyone. Sitting under the green trees and watching the sun driving his golden carriage, the moon driving her It’s a happy thing to come out of the pearl carriage. The smell of hawthorn is fragrant, and the orange stems hiding in the valley are also fragrant with the heather blooming on the hill. But love is better than life, and the heart of a bird How can it be compared with a person’s heart?” Nightingale made a choice. Abandon oneself and invest in more sacred and noble sacrifices, single-minded—idealists probably do.

She spread her brown wings and flew, and flew into the air. She swept across the garden like a shadow, and through the bushes like a shadow.

The young student was still lying on the grass, as she had left him before; the tears in his beautiful eyes had not yet dried.

“You want to be happy,” Nightingale said loudly, “you want to be happy; you will get your red rose. I will create it with music under the moonlight, and dye it red with my painstaking efforts. I only ask for it. One thing you do to repay me is to be a loyal lover, because no matter how clever the philosophy is, love is smarter than her, no matter how great power is, love is greater than him. The wings of love It is the color like a flame, and his body is also the color like a flame. His lips are as sweet as honey; his breath is as fragrant as frankincense: a kind of incense burned by the nation of Israel.”

The student raised his head on the grass and listened with his ears sideways, but he didn’t understand what Nightingale was saying to him, because he only knew what was written in the book. Implicitly insinuate. Nightingale regards him as a love practitioner, but he does not understand what Nightingale said, because “he only knows the things written in the book.” The tragedy of the idealists is almost like this. It is also the foreshadowing of the following article.

But Oak knew that he felt sad, because he liked the little nightingale that pits on his branch very much.

“Sing me one last song,” he said softly, “I will feel very lonely when you die.”

Nightingale sang to the oak tree, her voice like the sound of boiling water in a silver jar.

After she sang the song, the student stood up and took out a notebook and a pencil from his pocket.

“She looks good,” he said to himself, and walked away through the bushes-“This is undeniable; but does she have emotions? I think she probably doesn’t. In fact, she is like most artists; She has only appearances and no sincerity. She will not sacrifice herself for others. She only cares about music. Everyone knows that art is selfish. But I have to admit that there is also a beautiful tone in her voice. Only It’s a pity that they are completely meaningless, and they have no practical benefit.” Writing for students for the second time. “Art is selfish”, which is in contrast to what Nightingale thinks. “There is no practical benefit.” The art in the student’s mind does not exceed this point; therefore, the love in his mind can only reach this level. Two different kinds of love-tragedy has been inevitable. He walked into the room, lay on his little bed, and thought of his lover again, and after a while, he fell asleep.
Waiting for the moon to rise to the sky, Nightingale flew up to the rose tree; held her breast against the rose thorn. She sang with her chest against the thorn all night, and the clear Leng Yue also bowed her head and listened quietly. She sang the whole night, and the rose thorn pierced her chest. The deeper the thorn, the deeper her blood. The less come.

At first, she sang the original text of the love in the hearts of a pair of children as “the birth of love”, but now the word “generation” is omitted. . A strange rose bloomed on the highest branch of the rose tree, and the song was sung one by one, and the petals opened one by one. The flower was pale at first, like the fog covering the river, pale white like the feet of morning light, and silver white like the wings of dawn. The rose blooming on the highest branch is like a rose flower shadow reflected in a silver mirror, like a rose flower shadow reflected in a pool. Wilde’s color and beauty.

But the tree told Nightingale to hold the thorns tighter. “Close tight, little Nightingale,” the tree said loudly, “otherwise, the day will come before the rose is finished.”

Nightingale pressed the rose thorn tighter, and her singing became louder and louder, because she was singing the passion in the hearts of a pair of grown-up men and women. The original text is “the generation of passion”, and the word “generation” is omitted now. .

A layer of delicate blush on the rose petals, just like the blush on his face when the bridegroom kissed the bride. But the thorn hasn’t reached Nightingale’s heart, so Qiangwei’s heart is still white, because only Nightingale’s hard work can dye Qiangwei’s heart red.

The tree told Nightingale to hold the thorns tighter. “Close tight, little Nightingale,” the tree said loudly, “otherwise, the day will come before the rose is finished.”

Nightingale pressed the rose thorn tighter and pierced her heart. A sharp pain spread all over her. The harder and harder she was, the more passionate and passionate she sang, because she sang the love completed by death, the love that is immortal in the grave.

This strange rose turned deep red, like the sunrise in the eastern sky. The outer ring of the petals is dark red, and the flower center is red like a piece of ruby.

But Nightingale’s singing gradually weakened, her little wings fluttered, and a thin cloud covered her eyes. Her singing became lower and lower, and she felt that something was blocking her throat.

So she sang the last song. Hearing it, Mingyue actually forgot to fall, but only hovered in the sky. When Red Rose heard it, she trembled with deep joy, and opened her petals to welcome the morning chill. Echo took it to her purple cave in the mountain, and awakened the sleeping shepherd boy from a good dream. It drifted across the reeds along the river, and the reeds brought its news to the sea.

“Look, look!” The tree cried, “Now the rose is finished.” But Nightingale did not answer, because she had died in the tall grass and still had the rose thorn in her heart. Love and death are united in the creation of beauty. Holy and cruel, happy and sad. This is a typical passage of Americanism.

At noon the students opened the window and looked out.

“Ah, really good luck!” he cried, “here is a red rose! I have never seen a rose like this in my life. It is so beautiful, I believe it has a long Latin name.” He bent Go to the window and pick it up.

So he put on his hat, took the red rose, and ran to the professor’s house.

The professor’s daughter was sitting at the door, winding blue silk on a spinning wheel, and her puppy was lying at her feet.

“You said that if I gave you a red rose, you would dance with me,” the student said loudly. “Here is the reddest rose in the world. You will bring it to your caring room tonight. Place, when we dance together, it will say to you how much I love you.”

But the girl frowned.

“I’m afraid it won’t match my clothes,” she replied, “and the nephew of the imperial minister gave me some fine jewelry. Everyone knows that jewelry is more valuable than flowers.” The promise was shattered.

“Fine, I tell you honestly, you are ungrateful.” The student said angrily; he threw the flower into the street, and the flower happened to fall into the ditch, and a wheel ran over it. More cruel is “he threw the flowers into the street”. For the student, this flower is just a tool to achieve his purpose-the most selfless sacrifice is given to the most selfish person.

“Ingredient!” said the girl, “I tell you honestly, you are too impolite; and who are you? You are just a student. Well, I don’t believe you will wear shoes like the nephew of the Royal Minister. With silver buttons.” She got up and went into the room.

“Love is such a boring thing,” the student said as he walked. “It is not as useful as half of logic. Because it cannot prove anything, it always tells people something that would not happen, and it always teaches. People believe in something that is not real. In short, it is completely impractical, and in our time, everything must be practical. I still go back to philosophy or study metaphysics. “Students have not been able to keep this. Love, this is Wilde’s cruel ending. Behind the most romantic passage of Weimei, he cuts it off with a cruel and realistic hand. So the meaning of the story becomes deeper.

He went back to his room, took out a big dusty book, and read it.

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