Narcissus

Since the great, glad greeting of dawn from the eastern hillsTriumphant ran with a shout to the woods below,With the song in his ears of the clearly clamoring rillsHe has lain, like a man of snow,Slender and straight as the joyous immortals are made,Born of woman, but born with the grace of a god.Unheeded airs, caressingly cool, have playedWith his hair, and the nymphs have trodClose to his side, and have kissed him, waiting to flee—But Narcissus, what recketh he?

In the pool where the lithe fish flashes and slipsFrom his covert to snap at the careless, fluttering flies,Narcissus has seen the curve of his drooping lips,And, like mirrored miniature heavens, his shining eyes.And a flush like a dew-dipped rose has dyed the pool,He has laid his cheek to the ripples cool;Brow touches brow, lips lips, and his eyes of violet roamDown through the crystal depths. In the darkening domeThe stars shine forth from their faint, far ways,Trimming their lamps; and, from the purple haze,The moon, cloud-veiled, her circle just complete,Wan as a travail-spent mother, plants her feetOn the carpeted hills, and fearful of changeSeeks her reflected face in the sea’s southward range—But Narcissus, what recketh he?

Narcissus, Narcissus, where is thy boyish bloom,Thy long, slim form that lay beside the pool,And the lips cold smiling to their smiling image cool?Narcissus!

Only a strange, indefinite perfume,And a dim white spot in the night when soft airs blow;A flower, bending, bending lowIts petals and its yellow heart to where the waters flow;Its scent the winds have borneThrough the pearl-gray east to the arms of morn,To faint and to die in the wakening light—But of time’s swift flight, the dawn, and the noon, and the night,The sun’s gold glory, the moon’s white mystery,Narcissus, what recketh he?