She said that she would dance with me if I brought her red roses bud in all my garden there is no red rose. From her nest in the holm-oak tree the nightingale heard him she locked out through the leaves and wondered. No red rose in all my garden he cried and his beautiful eyes filled with tears oh, on what little things does the happiness depend. And when the moon shone in heavens the nightingale flew to the rose-tree she set her breast against the thorn and she sang all night long. 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 life-blood ebbed away from her. I have read all that the wise men have written and all the secrets of philosophy are mine yet for want of a red rose is my life made wreched. And when the moon shone in heavens the nightingale flew to the rose-tree she set her breast against the thorn and she sang all night long.