Echo and Narcissus
Waterhouse, 1903
Don’t you know it’s useless, dipping your head in
greed like the blonde daffodils, a cluster
of eager, yellow tongues? I thought you
better than base desires; like you, I dreamt
a different man. But there you are,
bared, within reach, your thigh
white as an eye I cannot turn
away from. I drink in the sight
of you like a nectar I need. Stay
prone in that mossy bed, your spine
a row of neat stones. Lay down
your quiver at my approach.
Fine; I admit, I too would waste gladly
on the precipice—if only
your face appeared
shyly below mine, your body
so close I could think it my own.
