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 crowflowers, 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 pendant boughs her coronet weeds
Clamb'ring 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 chaunted snatches of old tunes;
As one incapable of her own distress,
Or like a creature native and indu'd
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.

- said the Queen in "Hamlet"


Blame this lovely piece on my fascintion with the way Ophelia died. Suicide or accident? Some inspiration for this also came from the song "Dig Ophelia" by Rasputina, which goes as follows:

dig ophelia, consider it dug
flowers, madness, and polar bear rug
here's the water just ankle deep high
lay back, relax, and look up at the sky
your eyes never close, your mind's not at rest
lay back, get waterlogged, give us a kiss
water spreads the small seed
and water kills the tall weed
ee, ophelia
cut the stem and you'll see how you feel
floating orchids just ain't no big deal
never knowing's like knowing too much
tap the table, oh here's more bad luck
your eyes never close, your mind's not at rest
lay back, get waterlogged, give us a kiss
water spreads the small seed
and water kills the tall weed
ee, ophelia, -ia, -ia, ophelia, -ia, -ia
ophelia...


NOTE: NO ONE has permission to take this image.


<3 to the stock photos I used:
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