Look Not In My Eyes

Narcissus is a genus of mainly hardy, predominantly spring-flowering, bulbous perennial plants in the Amaryllidaceae (amaryllis) family, subfamily Amaryllidoideae. Various common names including daffodil, jonquil and Lent (or Lenten) lily are used to describe all or some members of the genus.

watercolor on paper

One day Narcissus, a hunter from the territory of Thespiae, was walking in the woods when Echo, (a mountain nymph) saw him, fell deeply in love, and followed him.

Narcissus sensed he was being followed and shouted "Who's there?". Echo repeated "Who's there?". She eventually revealed her identity and attempted to embrace him. He stepped away and told her to leave him alone. She was heartbroken and spent the rest of her life in lonely glens until nothing but an echo sound remained of her.

Nemesis, the goddess of revenge, noticed this behavior and attracted Narcissus to a pool, where he saw his own reflection in the water and fell in love with it, not realizing it was merely an image; unable to leave the beauty of his reflection, Narcissus drowned, and in its place came a narcissus flower. 

The pale flower is still found near river banks so that it can be reflected on the water.

Narcissus is the origin of the term narcissism, a fixation with oneself.

Narcissus is a painting by the Italian baroque master Caravaggio, painted circa 1597–1599. It is housed in the Galleria Nazionale d'Arte Antica in Rome.

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The Lover's Wounds

In Greek anemōnē means "daughter of the wind",  The name "windflower" is used for the whole genus as well as the wood anemone.

Besides the "windflower", I love how the Canaanites called anemones, "the lover's wounds".

Aphrodite (Venus) said: "my grief for Adonis will be remembered forever, and every year will see, reenacted in ritual form, his death and my lamentation; and the blood of the hero will be transformed to a flower."
As she spoke, she sprinkled his blood with sweet nectar, which made it swell up, like a transparent bubble that rises from muck; and in no more than an hour a flower sprang out of that soil, blood red in its color, just like the flesh that lies underneath the tough rind of the seed-hiding pomegranate. 
Brief is its season, for the winds from which it takes its name, the anemone, shake off those petals so lightly clinging and fated to perish.

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