As she lay dying there in the sleeping water under vigil skies,
Her paleness and poised hair drooped as her soft ankles thinned.
On this dying night, weeping violets and lonely daffodils sweep beneath her
Under the damsel skies, where the stars were bright, with rose tinted spectres above.
What innocence! Where soft eyed men pour their souls in foaming despair
Floating in dew time; Flowers shake beneath her quiet memories
Only in a dream, she felt, that the rivers let her go with no sweet pain,
Away from the foggy embrace of soft manes, called ample to sleep!
Within her sighs, pathetic Nature vile her against the Fumes of men
Yes - there she drowned! Twice the burden on the crazed self, her poor mind!
Although it seems as it were too lonely, the desolation and stillness, soft as muses
For twice she died! For the scatterings of a Man's heart, and bruised voices pouring forth
It is not plain to see the Spring turn to dreary sounds of woe in ember
She died with a Love, like a pale knight of many dying conquests!
What soft kisses fill her body's breath; polished gentle hands float
In the abyss of roaring sounds of freedom, as sweet as a White butterfly!
And with her handsome self, her garments flow deep as winter's face, to the bottom!
Ploughing ceaselessly against the bitterness of Denmark's treasures, darkling we listen
To her angelic voice that melts her own hair, preserve what's left of her!
The Tender innocence! The forlorn child! As we stood in tears against our land, dreary!
Yes- You have died! The breath of the disastrous wind played a part in you passing.
And we wake in incandescence, Is this a dream or a bitter awakening?
That your little lips won't touch the cheeks of your lovers,
Nor your several hells fail to come terms with the love you have cherished
What can April flowers do to your begone body? What shall I dream now?
A curse to valour and nobility? What beauty lies beyond her?
The pale voice of Love bestows you, the distant cheers of men at sea
With your twisted hair curl towards the seasonable thickets of death
It is in much grace and passing style you have made the saddest heart bleed
That your weariness leans yourself towards perilous seas, heavy once more
We remember with pompous caution the fragile heartstrings of man
The poor madness, leading Men to bow the knee to preserve your infinite virginity.
And the poet, comes seeking for flowers in the garden for her passing,
Where she picked a great Lily, poor Ophelia, will be for all, everlasting.
Inspired by the Shakespeare's Hamlet