| |
. |
|
| There is a
willow grows aslant the brook |
There, on
the pendant boughs her coronet weeds |
As one incapable of her own distress, |
| That shows
his hoar leaves in the glassy stream; |
Clamb'ring
to hang, an envious sliver broke; |
Or like a
creature native and indued |
| Therewith
fantastic garlands did she make |
When down
her weedy trophies and herself |
Unto that
element; but long it could not be |
|
Of crowflowers, nettles, daisies, and long purples
|
Fell in the
Weeping brook. Her clothes spread wide |
Till her
garments, heavy with their drink, |
| That liberal
shepherds give a grosser name, |
And, mermaid-like,
awhile they bore her up; |
Pulled the
poor wretch from her melodious lay |
| But our cold
maids do dead mens fingers call them. |
Which time
she chanted snatches of old lauds, |
To muddy death. |
| |
|
WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE - HAMLET |
| |
. |
|
|
Arthur Hughes Prints |
Site
Map |
Home |
