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Sweet Echo, sweetest nymph, that liv’st unseen
Within thy airy shell
By slow Meander’s margent green,
And in the violet embroider’d vale,
Where the love-lorn nightingale
Nightly to thee her sad song mourneth well;
Canst thou not tell me of a gentle pair
That likest thy Narcissus are?
O, if thou have
Hid them in some flow’ry cave,
Tell me but where,
Sweet queen of parley, daughter of the sphere!
So may’st thou be translated to the skies,
And give resounding grace to all heaven’s harmonies.
John Milton, 1608–1674.