When Narcissus died, the flowers of the field were stricken with grief, and begged the river for drops of water that they might mourn for him.
“If all my drops of water were tears,” replied the river, “I should not have enough to weep for Narcissus. I loved him.”
“How could you help loving Narcissus?” said the flowers. “He was so beautiful.”
“…was he beautiful?” asked the river.
“Who should know that better than yourself?” said the flowers. “For every day, lying on your bank, he mirrored his beauty in your waters.”
“But I loved him,” murmured the river, “because, when he leaned over me, I saw the reflection of my own beauty in his eyes.”
— Oscar Wilde