Mrs. Raa's reports

It is a lake, in ancient times the romantic poet would picture himself sitting on its banks, behind him, or perhaps to the side of the place, a willow tree whose branches have fallen like tresses of a sad woman, staring into the water of the lake and seeing the face of Narcissus on its surface, beautiful and miserable, matching his face, so he is preoccupied with his face, feeling pity for his soul, murmuring: Who will mourn for you, poor one? Then he begins his elegy.