My rendition of Narcissus and Echo from Ovid's Metamorphoses

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.

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[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.