Narcissus vanished. All that remained
was the fragrance of his beauty —
constant and sweet, the scent of heliotrope.
His task was only to behold himself.

Whatever emanated from from him he loved back into himself.
He no longer drifted in the open wind,
but enclosed himself in a narrowing circle
and there, in its grip, he extinguished himself.

— Rilke, Uncollected Poems

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