In a quiet moonlit garden, a young student sat beneath the roses, his face pale with sorrow. He whispered, “She said she would dance with me if I brought her a red rose, but no red rose grows in my garden.”

From her nest in the oak tree, the nightingale heard the student’s sad words and paused in sorrow. She whispered, “Here is one who truly loves. At last, I will behold love with my own eyes.”

The Nightingale flew across the garden, seeking a red rose. She first came to the white Rose-tree and sang, 'Give me a red rose, and I’ll sing you my sweetest song.'

But the White Rose-tree sighed, “My roses are white as snow. Go to my brother by the sundial.” So the Nightingale fluttered to the Yellow Rose-tree and pleaded, “Give me a red rose!”

The Yellow Rose-tree replied, “My roses are golden as the sun. Go to the tree beneath the Student’s window.” At last, the Nightingale found the Red Rose-tree and begged, “Give me a red rose!”

The Red Rose-tree explained, 'My roses are red, but winter has chilled my veins; I have no flowers this year.' The Nightingale pleaded, 'One red rose is all I need. Is there no way?' The tree replied, 'There is a way, but it is terrible. You must build it out of music and moonlight, and stain it with your heart’s blood. You must sing to me with your breast against my thorn. All night you must sing, and the thorn must pierce your heart.'

The Nightingale trembled. 'Death is a high price for a red rose,' she whispered. But then she declared, 'Love is greater than life. I will do it.' All night she sang beneath the moon, pressing her breast against the thorn. Pain shot through her heart, yet still she sang.

She sang of love that wakens in the heart of a boy and a girl—gentle and sweet. As she sang, the rose bud on the tree began to open, pale at first, like dawn.

The thorn pressed deeper, and a wave of pain shot through her heart. Still, she sang. She sang of love fulfilled, of joy and sorrow intertwined. Her blood flowed into the roots, and the rose deepened in color—pink, then crimson.

She sang of love perfected by death. Her voice trembled, her wings grew heavy. With every note, the rose grew more vibrant, absorbing her song and her spirit.

At the first light of dawn, the red rose bloomed—dark as blood, glowing like a ruby. The Nightingale gave one final, pure note, and fell silent forever.

At noon, the Student opened his window. 'Ah!' he cried. 'A red rose at last!' He plucked it joyfully and ran to the Professor’s garden.

In the Professor’s garden, the Student found the girl. 'You promised to dance with me if I brought you a red rose,' he said, offering the beautiful flower. 'Here it is—the rarest in the world.' But the girl shook her head.

She said, “It will not match my dress. And besides, the Chamberlain’s nephew sent me jewels. Everyone knows jewels are worth more than flowers.” The Student’s heart grew cold. He tossed the rose into the street, where it was crushed beneath a cartwheel.

The Student returned to his room. “Love is foolish,” he said. “It is not half as useful as logic or philosophy.” He opened a book and began to read. Beneath the Rose-tree, the little Nightingale lay still—her heart pierced by a thorn, her feathers brushed with moonlight. The garden was silent once more. Only the wind remembered her song.