One gentle rule, and that was rosy Love’s.
One day—the air was swooning with the heat —
The maiden sought the border of a stream
And stood and laved and cooled her burning feet.
The loving water breathed an amorous tale;
The maiden gave herself to its embrace,
And in its passionate clasp grew deathly pale.
Narcissos was afar: he could not hear
His sister’s piteous murmur of his name:
Alas! that poor Narcissos was not near!