Hans Christian Andersen's (1805-1875), The Nightingale--a beautiful tale of redemption, pity and intense longing.
"The poor Emperor could scarcely breathe; he felt as if something were sitting on his chest; he opened his eyes and saw that it was Death, wearing the Emperor's gold crown and holding in one hand the Imperial sword and in the other the Imperial banner. All around the bed, in the folds of the velvet curtains, were strange faces--some kind, some friendly, some hideous and hateful. They were the emperor's good and evil deeds, clustered about him, as Death sat on his heart..All at once by the window, the sweetest song rang out. It was the living nightingale, sitting on a branch outside..And as she sang, the ghostly faces grew fainter and fainter; the blood began to pulse more strongly through the Emperor's feeble limbs; even Death listened in and said, 'Go on little nightingale, go on!'"