For the last time he leaned forward.
"Narcissus, Narcissus, my love, come back—come back to me!"
By the side of the clear brown pool, on the grass that Echo had watered with her tears, there sprang up a sweet-scented flower, with a pure white face and a crown of gold. And to this day in many a land men call that flower "Narcissus," after the lad who, for love of his own fair face, was drowned in the waters of Helicon.
[The Sculptor and the Image]
