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 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.
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