Sprawled out on a branch above the lake, she stares up toward the sky
wishing for the sun to warm her frigid frightened limbs.
She waits. She hopes. She dreams.
Glowing innocence flashes upon her bare skin.
Her melancholic reflection beckons her.
Snap. The bough breaks.
Down. She tumbles.
Splash. She sinks.
No struggle - no crying.
Eternal peace.
"There is a willow grows aslant the brook,
That shows his hoar leaves in the glassy stream; here with fantastic garlands did she come.
Of crow-flowers, nettles, daisies, and long purples.
There on the pendant boughs her coronet weeds
Clambering to hang, an envious sliver broke.
When down the weedy trophies and herself
Fell in the weeping brook."
1 comment:
I don't know exactly why, but last night I wanted to write a poem about Ophelia. Out of all the literary characters, Ophelia has always stood out in my mind. perhaps because Hamlet is one of my favourite plays. It also might be because I have a poster of the Arthur Hughes painting of Ophelia with that passage on the wall right beside my computer, so I'm looking at it and reading it at least once a day. And no, I haven't read "Good morning midnight".
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