Ophelia

There is a willow grows aslant a brook,
that shows his hoar leaves in the glassy stream;
There with fantastic garlands did she come
Of crow-flowers, 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
Clambering to hang, an envious sliver broke;
When down her 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 tunes,
Hamlet, 4. 7


HA! Shakespeare! Read it!

Anyway, more of these to follow, too.

READ MY STOCK RULES, FOUND IN MY JOURNAL HEADER BEFORE YOU USE You must follow them.

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