In the East, all the chants and songs are sung with the Nightingale, loving roses. Under the quiet of night, with stars shining, only the wing of a song Hand carries fragrant flowers for him to sing a love song. From Smyrna (Note: Smyrna is a harbor in western Turkey), not far from a height where a large parasol tree stands, traders rush past with necks of camels. These animals, proud of their long and expensive necks, find it cumbersome to travel on this sacred land's road. I saw that the blossom of the rose tree forms a fence. Wild pigeons fly between the branches of the tall Xiang. When the sun shines upon their wings, they become luminous, like pearls. The rose bush bears one flower, a flower which is among the most beautiful of all flowers. The Nightingale sang its woes to it. But the rose did not say a word, nor did its leaves shed sympathetic tears as dew would. It just hung its branches against a few large stones. "Here lies one of the world’s greatest singers!" the Rose said. "I grew out of his tomb, distributing fragrance; when storms hit with violence, my petals fall upon it, according to Li Yate, turning the singer into a piece of dust soil, from which I germinate and grow! I am a rose that grows on Homer's grave. I am too sacred, and I cannot give a remarkable bloom to the Nightingale." Then the nightingale sang itself to death. Camels laden with merchants approached, along with animals and slaves. His son found the dead bird. He placed it only little near the great singer buried in Homer’s tomb. The rose trembled in the wind. Evening came. The rose firmly converged with the other petals and had a dream. It dreamed of a beautiful, sunny day. A group of foreign people - Frank people - came to participate in the tomb of Bai Hema. Among these foreign people was a singer; he came from the North, from the home of clouds and northern lights (Note: referring to Denmark, Norway, and Sweden). He plucked the rose, placed it in a book, and then took it to another part of the world - his distant fatherland. The rose's sorrow faded, lying quietly in this small book. He opened this book at home and said, "This is the rose taken off from Homer's grave." This is the flower of a dream. She woke up, shivering in the wind, GHD Australia, with a drop of dew falling from the leaves onto the singer’s grave. The sun rose, the weather gradually warmed up, and the roses became more beautiful than ever. She grew in warm Asia. Then footsteps approached and arrived. In her dream, the rose saw the group of Franks who came; one of these foreign people was a northern poet: He plucked the rose, kissed it on its fresh lips, and brought it home to the clouds and the northern lights. The flower, like the body like mummy, now lay inside his "according to Li Yate". It was as if in a dream, hearing him open the book and say, "This is a rose on the grave of Homer." (1942) This is a prose poem, collected in "Poet’s Market". It is probably written based on Anderson’s own sense of smell during his travels. The "northern poet prada shoes" in the article may refer to himself. With its ups and downs, the poet’s life sometimes has similar experiences. Therefore, only he can best understand and love this little rose.