# The Nightingale and the Rose _Oscar Wilde_ · 13 min read · ages 8-14 A nightingale hears a young Student weeping for a red rose and sings all night with her breast against a thorn, until her heart’s blood turns a rose crimson. The professor’s daughter prefers the jewels of the chamberlain’s nephew, so the Student throws the rose into the gutter and goes back to a great dusty book. --- “She said she would dance with me if I brought her red roses,” cried the young Student, “but there isn’t a single red rose in all my garden.” From her nest in the holm-oak, the Nightingale heard him. She looked out through the leaves and wondered. “Not one red rose in all my garden!” he cried, and his beautiful eyes filled with tears. “Oh, what little things happiness depends on! I have read everything the wise men have written, and all the secrets of philosophy are mine, and yet my life is miserable, all for the lack of a single red rose.” “Here at last is a true lover,” said the Nightingale. “Night after night I have sung of him, though I never knew him; night after night I have told his story to the stars, and now I see him. His hair is as dark as the hyacinth flower, and his lips are as red as the rose he longs for; but passion has made his face as pale as ivory, and sorrow has left its mark on his brow.” “The prince is giving a ball tomorrow night,” murmured the young Student, “and my love will be there. If I bring her a red rose, she will dance with me until dawn. If I bring her a red rose, I will hold her in my arms, and she will rest her head on my shoulder, and her hand will lie in mine. But there is no red rose in my garden, so I will sit alone, and she will pass me by. She won’t even notice me, and my heart will break.” “This really is the true lover,” said the Nightingale. “What I sing of, he suffers; what is joy to me is pain to him. Surely Love is a wonderful thing. It is more precious than emeralds and dearer than fine opals. Pearls and pomegranates cannot buy it, and it is not set out in the marketplace. No merchant can sell it, and it cannot be weighed out on the scales for gold.” “The musicians will sit in their gallery,” said the young Student, “and play their stringed instruments, and my love will dance to the sound of the harp and the violin. She will dance so lightly that her feet won’t touch the floor, and the courtiers in their bright clothes will crowd around her. But she will not dance with me, because I have no red rose to give her.” And he threw himself down on the grass, buried his face in his hands, and wept. “Why is he weeping?” asked a little Green Lizard as he ran past with his tail in the air. “Why, indeed?” said a Butterfly who was fluttering about after a sunbeam. “Why, indeed?” whispered a Daisy to his neighbor in a soft, low voice. “He is weeping for a red rose,” said the Nightingale. “For a red rose?” they cried. “How very ridiculous!” And the little Lizard, who was something of a cynic, laughed out loud. But the Nightingale understood the secret of the Student’s sorrow. She sat silent in the oak and thought about the mystery of Love. All at once she spread her brown wings and rose into the air. She passed through the grove like a shadow, and like a shadow she sailed across the garden. In the middle of the lawn stood a beautiful Rose-tree, and when she saw it, she flew over and landed on one of its branches. “Give me a red rose,” she cried, “and I will sing you my sweetest song.” But the Tree shook its head. “My roses are white,” it answered, “as white as the foam of the sea, and whiter than the snow on the mountain. But go to my brother who grows around the old sundial, and perhaps he will give you what you want.” So the Nightingale flew over to the Rose-tree that grew around the old sundial. “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, “as yellow as the hair of the mermaid who sits on an amber throne, and yellower than the daffodil that blooms in the meadow before the mower comes with his scythe. But go to my brother who grows beneath the Student’s window, and perhaps he will give you what you want.” So the Nightingale flew over to the Rose-tree that grew beneath the Student’s window. “Give me a red rose,” she cried, “and I will sing you my sweetest song.” But the Tree shook its head. “My roses are red,” it answered, “as red as a dove’s feet, and redder than the great fans of coral that wave and wave in the caves beneath the ocean. But the winter has chilled my veins, and the frost has nipped my buds, and the storm has broken my branches, and I will have no roses at all this year.” “One red rose is all I want,” cried the Nightingale. “Only one red rose! Is there no way I can get it?” “There is a way,” answered the Tree, “but it is so terrible that I don’t dare tell you.” “Tell me,” said the Nightingale. “I am not afraid.” “If you want a red rose,” said the Tree, “you must build it out of music by moonlight and stain it with your own heart’s blood. You must sing to me with your breast against a thorn. All night long you must sing to me, and the thorn must pierce your heart, and your lifeblood must flow into my veins and become mine.” “Death is a great price to pay for a red rose,” cried the Nightingale, “and Life is very dear to everyone. It is pleasant to sit in the green woods and watch the Sun in his chariot of gold and the Moon in her chariot of pearl. How sweet the hawthorn smells, and the bluebells hiding in the valley, and the heather that sways on the hill! Yet Love is better than Life, and what is the heart of a bird compared to the heart of a man?” So she spread her brown wings and rose into the air. She swept over the garden like a shadow, and like a shadow she sailed through the grove. The young Student was still lying on the grass where she had left him, and the tears were not yet dry in his beautiful eyes. “Be happy,” cried the Nightingale, “be happy; you shall have your red rose. I will build it out of music by moonlight and stain it with my own heart’s blood. All I ask of you in return is that you be a true lover, for Love is wiser than Philosophy, though Philosophy is wise, and mightier than Power, though Power is mighty. Love’s wings are the color of flame, and his body is flame-colored too. His lips are as sweet as honey, and his breath is like frankincense.” The Student looked up from the grass and listened, but he could not understand what the Nightingale was saying to him, for he only knew the things that are written down in books. The Oak-tree understood, though, and he felt sad, for he was very fond of the little Nightingale who had built her nest in his branches. “Sing me one last song,” he whispered. “I’ll be so lonely when you’re gone.” 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 took a notebook and a pencil out of his pocket. “She has technique,” he said to himself as he walked away through the grove. “There’s no denying that. But does she have feeling? I’m afraid not. In fact, she is like most artists: all style and no sincerity. She would never sacrifice herself for others. She thinks only of music, and everybody knows that the arts are selfish. Still, I must admit she has some beautiful notes in her voice. What a pity they don’t mean anything, or do any practical good!” And he went into his room, lay down on his narrow little bed, and began to think about his love; and after a while he fell asleep. When the Moon was shining in the sky, 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 lifeblood ebbed away. She sang first of the birth of love in the heart of a boy and a girl. And on the highest branch of the Rose-tree there bloomed a marvelous rose, petal after petal, as song followed song. At first it was pale, like the mist that hangs over the river, pale as the feet of the morning and silver as the wings of the dawn. The rose that bloomed on the highest branch of the Tree was like the shadow of a rose in a silver mirror, like the shadow of a rose in a pool of water. But the Tree cried to the Nightingale to press closer against the thorn. “Press closer, little Nightingale,” cried the Tree, “or the Day will come before the rose is finished.” So the Nightingale pressed closer against the thorn, and her song grew louder and louder, for she sang of the birth of passion in the soul of a man and a woman. And a delicate flush of pink came into the petals of the rose, like the flush on a bridegroom’s face when he kisses his bride. But the thorn had not yet reached her heart, so the rose’s heart stayed white, for only a Nightingale’s heart’s blood can turn the heart of a rose crimson. And the Tree cried to the Nightingale to press closer against the thorn. “Press closer, little Nightingale,” cried the Tree, “or the Day will come 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. The pain was bitter, so bitter, and her song grew wilder and wilder, for she sang of the Love that is made perfect by Death, of the Love that does not die in the tomb. And the marvelous rose turned crimson, like the rose of the eastern sky. The ring of petals was crimson, and its heart was as crimson as a ruby. But the Nightingale’s voice grew fainter, her little wings began to beat, and a film came over her eyes. Her song grew fainter and fainter, and she felt something choking her throat. Then she gave one last burst of music. The white Moon heard it, and she forgot the dawn and lingered in the sky. The red rose heard it, and it trembled all over with delight and opened its petals to the cold morning air. Echo carried it to her purple cave in the hills and woke the sleeping shepherds from their dreams. It floated through the reeds of the river, and the reeds 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. 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 a rose like it in all my life. It is so beautiful that I’m sure it has a long Latin name.” And he leaned down and picked it. Then he put on his hat and ran up to the professor’s house with the rose in his hand. The professor’s daughter was sitting in the doorway, winding blue silk onto a reel, and her little dog was lying at her feet. “You said 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 close to your heart, and as we dance together, it will tell you how much I love you.” But the professor’s daughter frowned. “I’m afraid it won’t 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, really, 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!” she said. “I’ll tell you what, you are very rude; and after all, who are you? Only a Student. Why, I don’t believe you even have silver buckles on your shoes, the way the chamberlain’s nephew does.” And she got up from her chair and went into the house. “What a silly thing Love is!” said the Student as he walked away. “It isn’t half as useful as Logic, because it doesn’t prove anything, and it is always telling you about things that are not going to happen and making you believe things that are not true. In fact, it is quite impractical, and since in this day and age being practical is everything, I shall go back to Philosophy and study Metaphysics.” So he went back to his room, pulled out a great dusty book, and began to read. --- - Read online: https://talerie.com/en/tales/the-nightingale-and-the-rose-original - Wikidata: https://www.wikidata.org/wiki/Q2622393 - Source: The Happy Prince and Other Tales, by Oscar Wilde (Project Gutenberg #30120) (https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/30120) - Public-domain basis: Talerie contemporary retelling (CC0 2026), based on: The Happy Prince and Other Tales, by Oscar Wilde (Project Gutenberg #30120) — original: author died 1900 (+70 passed) - License: CC0-1.0 (https://creativecommons.org/publicdomain/zero/1.0/)