In Thespian woods where Cephissus flows,
A river-god whose currents softly gleam,
There bloomed a child of more than mortal grace—
Narcissus, born to Liriope the nymph.
His mother, trembling, sought the seer’s sight:
“Will he live long?” Tiresias, sightless, smiled
And spoke the riddle wrapped in shadow’s veil:
“Long years, provided he shall never know himself.”

The boy grew tall, a slender flame of youth,
Sixteen summers on his cheek like rose-light,
Hair black as midnight rivers, skin like dawn
Polished on ivory. Every eye that met him
Burned. Young men sighed, maidens wove his name
In secret songs. Yet pride, cold as winter stone,
Sealed his heart. He turned from every plea,
From every hand outstretched, with scornful laugh:
“Why grasp at me when I am not for you?”

Among the spurned was Echo, mountain nymph,
Once bright of tongue, who chattered through the hills
To shield her lord from Juno’s jealous gaze.
Punished, she lost her voice—could only take
The final words of others, fling them back
Like pebbles skipped across a silent lake.
She saw Narcissus once, hunting alone,
And love struck through her like an arrow’s fire.
She followed, hidden, aching to confess,
But when he called to companions lost—“Is anyone here?”—
Only her borrowed voice replied: “Here… here…”

He frowned. “Come closer.” Echo’s heart leaped wild.
“Closer… closer…” She stepped into the light.
Arms wide, she ran toward embrace. He recoiled:
“Away! I’d sooner die than lie with you.”
Away… with you… The words cut deeper than knives.
She fled, and fading, fading, body wasted
Until she was no flesh, only repeating sound—
A voice that lingers still in empty vales.

But Nemesis, goddess of righteous return,
Heard one rejected lover’s whispered curse:
“Let him who spurns all love himself love vainly,
And never gain the thing his heart desires.”
The prayer was granted.

One noon, tired from the chase, Narcissus wandered
To a sequestered glade no shepherd knew,
Where silver water lay in perfect stillness—
No ripple marred it, no leaf broke its glass.
He bent to drink. And there—impossible beauty—
A face looked up: eyes dark as his, lips curved
In perfect symmetry, curls falling just so.
He stared. The image stared. He reached. It reached.
A smile—he smiled. A sigh—he sighed in turn.

O fatal thirst that was not thirst for water!
He loved, and knew not what he loved, yet burned.
“Why do you flee when I pursue? Why mock
My reaching hand?” The face gave back no answer
But mirrored anguish, mirrored longing, mirrored him.
He tore his hair. The image tore its hair.
He beat his marble breast until it bloomed
With purple bruises. Still the other suffered
The same self-wounding blows.

Hours bled to days.
He neither ate nor slept, but lay beside
The pool, consuming himself with sight alone.
“How many times I’ve kissed those lying lips!
How many times embraced the empty air!
You are myself—yet separate. Cruel jest!
If only I could leave my body here
And join the one I love…” A tear fell down,
Rippling the face he worshipped. It dissolved.
He cried aloud: “If I must lose you, let me die!”

Death heard. The flame of life withdrew by slow degrees.
His cheeks grew pale, his limbs transparent as mist.
The nymphs who once had loved him came at last
To mourn beside the pool. They found no body—
Only a golden flower bent above the water,
White petals framing a deep yellow heart,
Nodding forever toward its own reflection.

So ends the tale Tiresias foretold:
The boy who never knew himself lived long—
Yet died the moment recognition dawned.

And still the flower leans, year after spring,
Toward its mirrored twin in every stream,
Teaching the quiet lesson of the pool:
Too much of self can drown the soul entire.