And Death sat and looked at the Emperor, and it was
fearfully quiet.
Then there sounded from the window, suddenly, the most lovely song. It
was the little live Nightingale that sat outside on a spray. It had
heard of the Emperor's sad plight and had come to sing to him of
comfort and hope. And as it sang the blood ran quicker and more
quickly through the Emperor's heart; and even Death listened.
The Nightingale sang on and on; and it sang of the quiet churchyard
where white roses grow, and the elder-blossom smells sweet, and the
grass is green. Then Death felt a great longing to see his garden and
he floated out at the window in a white mist, and with him went the
spectres.
"Thanks! Thanks!" said the Emperor. "How can I reward you? You must
always stay with me."
"Not so," replied the Nightingale. "I cannot build my nest in a
palace, but I will come and sit in the evening on the spray yonder by
the window and sing you something so that you may be glad and
thoughtful at once. I will sing of those who are happy and those who
suffer. I will sing of good and of evil that are hidden from you. The
little singing bird flies far around, to the poor fishermen, to the
peasant's roof, to every one who dwells far from your court. I will
come and sing to you.
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