The Emperor longed for something to come and relieve the monotony of this deathlike stillness . If only someone would speak to him ! If only someone would sing to him . Music would carry his thoughts away , and would break the spell lying on him . The moon was streaming in at the open window ; but that , too , was silent , quite silent . ` Music ! music ! ' cried the Emperor . ` You little bright golden bird , sing ! do sing ! I gave you gold and jewels ; I have hung my gold slipper round your neck with my own hand -- sing ! do sing ! ' But the bird was silent . There was no one to wind it up , and so it could not sing . And all was silent , so terribly silent ! All at once there came in at the window the most glorious burst of song . It was the little living Nightingale , who , sitting outside on a bough , had heard the need of her Emperor and had come to sing to him of comfort and hope . And as she sang the blood flowed quicker and quicker in the Emperor 's weak limbs , and life began to return . ` Thank you , thank you ! ' said the Emperor .
` You divine little XXXXX !
bird blood gold life monotony moon something spell stillness streaming