How you had spoken to me
in the pale mornings
I cannot express to anyone —
all are deaf to me;
no voice is my own.
All that you had told me
is the first truth,
and mine is but a dim echo,
seeking to mirror your brighter light,
your stronger tone.
You are my Narcissus,
and I am not even the nymph,
but the pool beside which you perish,
never even having kissed
your own cool lips.