All the songs from the eastern to talk about the love of the nightingale for the rose in the silent starlight night. The winged songster serenades fragrant flowers. Not far from Smyrna, where the merchant drives his loaded camels, proudly arching their long necks as they journey under the tall pine trees in the holy land, I saw a rose hedge. Turtle-dove flew among the branches of tall trees, and as the sunbeams fell on its wings, they sparkle as if they were mother-of-pearl.
In the rose-bush growing flowers, more beautiful than them all, and the nightingale sung of his woes, but the ride remained silent, even the dew lay like a tear of sympathy on her leaves. Finally he bowed his head in a pile of stones, and said, "Here lies the biggest singer in the world; over his tomb will I spread the fragrance, and on it I will let my leaves fall when the storm scatters them. He who sung of Troy became earth , and of the earth that I have sprung.
I, rose from the grave of Homer, was too high to bloom for a nightingale. "Then the nightingale sunghimself to death. A camel came, with a loaded camel and black slaves; small children found the bird dead, and buried the lovely songster in the grave of Homer, while the rose trembled in the wind. Night came, and wrapped up her leaves more closely round, and had a dream: and this is herdream.
The day was sunny fair; crowd of strangers who have been approached to do the pilgrimage to the tomb of Homer. Among the strangers was a singer from the north, the home of the clouds and the brilliant lights of the aurora borealis. He was picking up and placing it in a book, and took him away to a distant part of the world, was born. Rose faded with grief, and lay between the leaves of the book, which was opened in his own house, saying, "This is a rose from the grave of Homer."Then the flower awoke from her dream, and trembled in the wind. A drop of dew on the leaves fall from the singer's grave. The sun rises, and the flowers bloom more beautiful than ever. The day was hot, and he was still in his own warm Asia. Then footsteps approached, strangers, such as roses are seen in his dream, came, and among them was a poet of the north, he plucked a rose, pressed a kiss on the mouth fresh, and took him away to the house of the cloud and the northern lights. Like a mummy, the interest now lies in the "Iliad", and, as in his dream, he heard his father say, when he opened the book, "Here is risen from the grave of Homer."
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