Ophelia
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Ophelia, by John William Waterhouse
1889
Ophelia, by John Millais
1851-52 Oil on canvas Tate Gallery, London
Shakespeare's Hamlet, Ophelia's er death...
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, 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 pendant boughs her coronet weeds Clambering to hang, an envious silver broke; When down her weedy trophies and herself Fell in the weeping brook. Her clothes spread wide; And, mermaid-like, awhle they bore her up: Which time she chanted snatches of old tunes: 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.
Ophelia by Arthur Hughes
The Lady of Shalott
... another watery tale of despair
Beautiful World
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