Sitting alone upon my thought in melancholy mood, <br />In sight of sea, and at my back an ancient hoary wood, <br />I saw a fair young lady come, her secret fears to wail, <br />Clad all in colour of a nun, and covered with a veil; <br />Yet (for the day was calm and clear) I might discern her face, <br />As one might see a damask rose hid under crystal glass. <br /> <br />Three times, with her soft hand, full hard on her left side she knocks, <br />And sigh'd so sore as might have mov'd some pity in the rocks; <br />From sighs and shedding amber tears into sweet song she brake, <br />When thus the echo answered her to every word she spake: <br /> <br />Oh heavens ! who was the first that bred in me this fever ? Vere (Ver.) <br />Who was the first that gave the wound whose fear I wear for ever ? Vere. <br />What tyrant, Cupid, to my harm usurps thy golden quiver ? Vere. <br />What sight first caught this heart and can from bondage it deliver ? Vere. <br /> <br />Yet who doth most adore this sight, oh hollow caves tell true ? You. <br />What nymph deserves his liking best, yet doth in sorrow rue ? You. <br />What makes him not reward good will with some reward or ruth ? Youth. <br />What makes him show besides his birth, such pride and such untruth ? Youth. <br /> <br />May I his favour match with love, if he my love will try? Ay. <br />May I requite his birth with faith ? Then faithful will I die ? Ay. <br />And I, that knew this lady well, <br />Said, Lord how great a miracle, <br />To her how Echo told the truth, <br />As true as Phoebus' oracle.<br /><br />Edward de Vere<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/echo-verses/
