The ripe poetic youth languishes fair,
pondering the heartbreaking trials that dawn.
Little though Narcissus does realize now,
his troubles
and he are not alone, for
apart from his quite graceful attire,
a tweedish suit of flattered fit, like Dorian’s,
he shines with radiance near girlish,
but of male purity and beauty.
Enveloped
in his musings, Echo creeps
while watching hungrily and shyly from
her perch behind a bench near where he sits.
Well payed for her nature of meddling,
in summer of the sixth month of the year,
once an admirer of Narcissus-birthed poetry
changed into
a mockingbird she was, that
so as she mocked and meddled with her voice
when human, she could fittingly continue
as one who can do nothing else but
repeat her snatches of last-spoken words.
In fact, so meddling was she, before her
change, she would even hinder Narcissus
from going on about his work. Never
cool or collected in his company,
stammering, grasping for any bit of
something to speak, she would use what she heard
as what to say, utterly wasting the
small time the poet had. Persistence though
she had, soon June appeared to do her work.
In the midst of that hot month, Narcissus
went on his way towards the recitation.
Fixed on his way, all but oblivious
to all else, having waited for today
for years, it being the first public showing of
his work, Echo appeared. Flurrying his
ears with useless chatter, she spoke so fast
as to render time stopped, except the great
rapidity of her words.
At
long last,
to render time back to its normal flow,
June stepped right in to end the monologue.
At once, she changed her protégé’s stalker
into the bird who never uniquely sings,
but still guiles away the hours of
her listeners’ lives without any care.
A
very great part of the time, Echo
would have flown out into his arms, burning
with fiery a passion like that of pitch
indeed quite burning hot for his beauty.
Forgetting her new airy form, and not
expecting any other than a welcoming
response, she was shocked to behold his fright
at her flight to embrace Narcissus. He,
after he calls out to the open air
his verses, is surprised, descrying a
strange, quaint, but little fowl in the yonder tree
indeed repeating every verse, albeit
in a distorted, but recognizable
birdsong.
Peering
about the clearing, he
espies the tiny Echo suddenly
deserting quickly her branch, to come and
embrace him, her love no longer controlled.
Bewildered by the strange turn of events,
Narcissus calls out, “Who are you, that you
indeed come right off of your perch to me?”
To which Echo replies, “To me? To me?”
while still in flight, so Narcissus’ confusion
is not averted.
Echo continues
to come towards him and arrives that moment.
Embracing
him, with feathery wings there
around his neck, Echo surprises him.
He flees, and fleeing, cries, “Hands off! No hugs!
I’ll die before you’ll have your way with me![1]
A bird, no less, is never one for me,
much less a bird who wants to idolize
Narcissus! No! ‘Twill never happen here!”
Rejected, and certainly shunned, Echo
flies into her mass of trees to hide.
wasting away for lack of Narcissus,
she stayed immortally present, ready
invariably to recite anything
in song or verse to Narcissus. Never
losing hope, Echo flies about searching
for the perfect response, she fears will only
come from Narcissus himself. Her love has
endured, even as she wastes away, her voice
as shrill as the sirens; nevertheless
her small voice never will be stilled again.
[1]
The lines that start with “He flees, and fleeing cries,” and ends with “your
way with me” are taken verbatim from lines 503-504 of Book III of Ovid’s Metamorphoses.
