Except the mill-wheel's sound.

Percy Bysshe Shelley

[264]

ECHO'S LAMENT FOR NARCISSUS

Slow, slow, fresh fount, keep time with my salt tears;

Yet, slower yet; O faintly, gentle springs;

List to the heavy part the music bears;

Woe weeps out her division when she sings.

Droop herbs and flowers;

Fall grief in showers,