Nightingale and roses
Wen | Wilde (translated by Lin Huiyin) Figure | network
"She said that if I picked red roses for her, she would dance with me." The young student cried and said, "But why did I ever have a red rose in my garden?" ”
The nightingale heard it in its nest in the oak tree, and looked out from the leaves, and was surprised.
The youth cried, "There are no red roses in my garden!" "He had tears in his eyes." Yikes! Happiness lies in these little things! I have read the books of the ancient sages, and I have fully understood the mysteries of philosophy, but because I cannot ask for a red rose, my life is so embarrassing. ”
Nightingale sighed, "The true lover is here." Although I had never known him before, I sang about him night after night: I told the stars about one of his things night, and now I see him. His hair was as black as hyacinth flowers, and his lips were redder than the roses he had longed for, but the affection had made his face haggard, and troubles had already led to traces at the end of his eyebrows. ”
The young man whispered to himself again, "The prince will dance at the banquet tonight, and my lover will also be present." If I pick a red rose for her, she will dance with me until dawn, and if I pick a red rose for her, I will hold her in my arms, her head resting on my shoulder, her hand in my hand. But there were no red roses in my garden, and I could only sit lonely and watch her pass in front of me, and she ignored me, and my heart was about to shatter. ”
"This is a real person." The Nightingale said, "What I sing is of the suffering he has tasted: in me I am happy, but in him it is sorrow. 'Love' is indeed a very special thing. It is more precious than jadeite, more precious than agate. Pearls and garnets could not buy him, nor could gold be his price, for he was not sold in the market, nor was it sold by merchants. ”
The young man said, "The musicians will play the silk bamboo in the music world, and my lover will also dance according to the syllables of the stringed piano." She danced so loudly, the lotus steps did not touch the ground, and the teenagers in Chinese costumes would envy her. But she didn't dance with me because I didn't pick red roses for her. So he threw himself into the grass, covering his face with both hands and crying.
The little green gecko said, "Why is he crying?" After saying that, he put up his tail and ran past him.
Butterflies were flying in the sun, and he asked, "Oh, how?" Calendula also whispered to her neighbor, "Oh, what?" Nightingale said, "He wept for a red rose." ”
They cried out, "For a red rose!" What a joke! The little gecko was meant, so he laughed.
But nightingale knew the secret of the young man's troubles, and she sat quietly on the oak branch and pondered the mysteries of "love."
Suddenly, she opened her brown wings and flew into the sky. She flew through the woods like a shadow, like a shadow, and she flew out of the garden.
There stood a beautiful rose tree in the middle of the meadow, and she saw the tree and flew forward and landed on a branch.
She cried, "Give me a bright red rose, and I'll sing you my most gentle song." ”
But the tree shook its head.
"My roses are white," replied the tree, "as white as the foam of the waves, white as the snow over the mountains." Please come to my brother by the sundial, or he will do what you ask. ”
So the nightingale flew to the bush of roses next to the sundial.
She cried again, "Give me a bright red rose, and I will sing the most intoxicating song for you." ”
"My roses are yellow," replied the tree, "yellow as the hair of the mermaid god on the amber throne, yellow as the golden daffodils of the past before the lawn mower." Please go over there and find my brother under the youth window, or he will do what you ask. ”
So the nightingale flew to the bush of roses under the youth window.
He still cried, "Give me a bright red rose, and I will sing the sweetest song for you." ”
The tree replied to her, "My roses are red, red as the toes of a white pigeon, and corals fanning under the rocks of the red fruit seabed." But the harsh winter has frozen my veins, the frost has eaten my buds, the storm has broken my branches, and this year I can no longer open. ”
Nightingale admonished, "One red rose is enough." Just a red rose! Is there any way to do it? ”
The tree replied, "There is a method, there is only one, but it is too terrible for me to tell you." "Tell me," said nightingale bravely, "I'm not afraid. ”
The tree said, "If you want a red rose, you need to make it in the moonlight with music, and then dye her with your own efforts." You need to put a spike on your chest and sing for me. You need to sing for me all night, the thorn needs to pierce your heart, and the blood of your life will flow into the atrium of my heart and become mine. ”
Nightingale sighed, "It's a great price to buy a red rose with death, whose life is not precious, sitting in the lush forest, watching the sun in the golden car, the moon galloping in the white beads, it is a pleasure." The taste of hawthorn is really fragrant, and the hanging bell flowers in the valley and the wild grass on the hillside are really beautiful. However, 'love' is more precious than life, how can a bird's heart be compared with a man's heart? ”
Suddenly, she opened her brown wings and flew into the sky. She walked through the garden like a shadow, and she swung out of the woods.
The young man was still frozen on the grass where she had left, and the tears in his eyes had not yet dried.
The nightingale cried, "Rejoice, rejoice; you are about to pick your red rose." I will make her out of the song under the moon. The reward I ask you for is only to be a sincere lover, because although the philosophy is wise, love is wiser than her, power is stronger, and love is greater than her. The color of the flame is the wings of love, and the color of the fire is the trunk of love. She was like honey lips, Ruolan exhaled. ”
The young man looked up from the grass and listened, but he did not understand what the nightingale had said to him, for he knew only everything that was said in the book.
But the oak tree understood, and he felt sad, for he loved the little nightingale that had nested on the branch. He said softly, "Sing a final song to me, and when you leave, I will feel infinite loneliness."
So the nightingale sang for the oak tree, and her other tone was like a wave of water gushing in a silver bottle. When she finished singing, the young man stood up and drew a diary book and a pen from his pocket. As he walked out of the woods, he said to himself, "That nightingale does have some gestures." This is something that man cannot deny; but does she have feelings? I'm afraid not. In fact, she is like many artists, full of rituals, without sincerity. She will not be willing to sacrifice for others. All she could think of was music, but who didn't know that art was for herself. Although, we always have to admit that she has an intoxicating singing voice. Unfortunately, that kind of song is also meaningless and useless. So he went back to his room and lay down on his little straw mat bed, missing his lover; after a while he went to sleep.
When the moon rose to the sky and released her radiance, the nightingale came to the rose branch and stuck her chest in the thorn. She had spikes in her chest, and she sang all night, and the crystal moon leaned against the clouds and listened. She had been singing all night, and the thorn was getting deeper and deeper, and the blood of her life was gradually spilling. The first thing she sang was the birth of love in the hearts of young men and young girls. So the top branch of the rose bore a brilliant rose bud, and the song was sung one after another, and the petals opened one after another. At first the petal was as dim as the mist covering the river—as dim as the morning sun, as silver as the wings of the dawn, and the rose bud on the branch as the shadow of a rose reflected in a silver mirror, or the embodiment of a rose shining in a pond. But the tree also urged the nightingale to stick the thorn.
"Hold on to that thorn, little nightingale." The tree cried out, "Otherwise, the rose has not yet bloomed, and Xiaoguang will come." So the nightingale inserted the spike more tightly, and the louder she sang her song, because this time she was singing the birth of the spiritual love between men and women. Now the rose petals had a delicate red halo, like the groom's cheeks when she first kissed the bride. But the thorn had not yet reached the atrium of the nightingale's heart, so the heart of the flower remained white, because only the nightingale's painstaking efforts could dye the heart of the rose, and the tree repeatedly urged the nightingale to insert the thorn.
"Hold on to that thorn, little nightingale," cried the tree, "or the roses will not yet bloom, and Dawn will come." So the nightingale inserted the thorn tightly, and the thorn actually penetrated her heart, but a strange pain penetrated her whole body, his love and the immortal love in the tomb. The brilliant rose then turned bright red, like the sky in the East. The outer petals of the flower are red with fire, and the heart of the flower is as red as jade.
The nightingale's voice became more and more muffled as she sang, her wings flapping, and a membrane rose over her eyes. Her singing became muffled, and she felt choked in her throat. So she let out the last song, and the white remnant moon heard it, forgot the dawn, and hung in the air. The rose heard this, trembling with concentration, and the petals opened in the cold breeze. Echo led the song into the purple hole on the hillside and woke the shepherd boy from his dream. The song flowed into the reeds by the river, and the reed leaves transmitted this message to the sea. The tree cried, "Look, this rose has been made. But nightingale did not answer, she was lying dead in the grass, and the thorn was still in her heart. At noon, the youth opened the window and looked out.
He cried, "Strange thing, what a rare luck, there is a red rose here, such a good rose, I have never been born to see." It must have a very long Latin name for such beauty"; said and leaned down to fold the flower. So he put on his hat and ran to the professor's house, with a red rose in his hand. The professor's daughter was sitting in front of the door rolling up a scroll of blue silk, and her puppy was crouched at her feet. The youth cried, "You said that if I picked red roses for you, you would dance with me." Here is one of the most precious red roses in the world. You can put her on your chest, and when we dance together, the flower can tell you how much I love you. The girl only frowned. She replied, "I am afraid that this flower will not fit my clothes; and the nephew of the minister has given me many jewels, and everyone knows that jewelry is more valuable than flowers and plants." ”
The youth said angrily, "I dare say that you are a ruthless and righteous person. She threw the rose in the middle of the street, dropped it in the rut, and let a wheel roll over. The girl said, "Ruthless righteousness? I tell you, you are rude, and who are you? But a student literati, I look like the silver buckle on the minister's nephew's shoes, you don't have it. He said and got up and walked back to the room.
The young man walked and said to himself, "Hobbies are stupid, far less practical than ethics, and what it tells us is nothing more than castles in the air, which will not actually happen, and ethereal and implausible events." In the present world, there are first and foremost practical things, and I will return to my philosophical and metaphysical books. So he went back to his room and took out a bulky, dusty book and buried his head in perusal.
About the Author: Oscar Wilde (16 October 1854 – 30 November 1900), born in Dublin, was an Irish writer, poet, playwright, advocate of the British Aesthetic art movement, the main force of the aesthetic movement in the 1880s and the pioneer of the decadent movement of the 1890s, one of the greatest writers and artists in 19th-century England (Ireland to be precise, but ruled by Britain at the time), graduated from Oxford University. His major works include "Portrait of Dowling Gray" and "No Child Play".
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