William Shakespeare: The Weeping Brook / Ophelia's Tomb

The Weeping Brook

There is a willow grows aslant the brook

That shows his hoar leaves in the glassy stream;

Therewith fantastic garlands did she make

Of cornflowers, nettles, daisies, and long purples

That liberal shepherds give a grosser name,
But our cold maids do dead men’s fingers call them.

There, on the pendent boughs her coronet weeds

Clamb’ring to hang, an envious sliver broke;

When down het weedy trophies and herself

Fell in the weeping brook. Her clothes spread wide

And, mermaid-like, awhile they bore her up;

Which time she chanted snatches of old lauds,
As one incapable of her own distress,
Or like a creature native and indued

Unto that element; but long it could not be

Till that her garments, heavy with their drink,
Pull’d the poor wretch from her melodious lay

To muddy death.

Hamlet, Act 4, Scene 7, 167-184
Orhelia's Tomb, μια ζωγραφιά του Βασίλη Πολύζου 2004