'But--well, I much prefer roses. Indeed I do.'

'Rose of the World,' I continued with sentiment, 'draw in your thorns. I
cannot bear them.'

'Ah!' she answered eagerly, 'that is just it. The nightingale that is
worthy of the rose will not only bear, but positively love, her thorns.
It is for that reason she wears them. The thorns of the rose properly
understood are but the tests of the nightingale. The nightingale that
is frightened of the thorns is not worthy of the rose--of that you may
be sure....'

'I am not frightened of the thorns,' I managed to interject.

'Sing then once more,' she cried, 'the Song of the Nightingale.'

And it was thus I sang:--

O Rose of the World, a nightingale,
A Bird of the World, am I,
I have loved all the world and sung all the world,
But I come to your side to die.

Tired of the world, as the world of me,
I plead for your quiet breast,
I have loved all the world and sung all the world--
But--where is the nightingale's nest?

In a hundred gardens I sung the rose,