Ophelia

There is a willow grows aslant a brook, that shows his hoar leaves in the glassy stream, Therewith fantastic garlands did she make 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 lauds; as one incapable of her own distress, or like a creature native and indued onto 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 Now Ophelia, she's 'neath the window For her I feel so afraid On her twenty-second birthday She already is an old maid.. To her, death is quite romantic She wears an iron vest Her profession's her religion Her sin is her lifelessness And though her eyes are fixed upon Noah's great rainbow She spends her time peeking Into Desolation Row... Bob Dylan ...Et le Poète dit qu'aux rayons des étoiles Tu viens chercher, la nuit, les fleurs que tu cueillis, Et qu'il a vu sur l'eau, couchée en ses longs voiles, La blanche Ophélia flotter, comme un grand lys. Sull'acqua calma e nera, dove dormono le stelle, come un gran giglio ondeggia la bianca Ofelia, ondeggia lentamente, stesa fra i lunghi veli... Arthur Rimbaud