Painting by John Everett Millais

La Petite Mort of Ophelia

Ophelia,

with rushes wrapped around thy head like nature’s crown,

Perchance to dream, perchance to drown

In waters of thine essence own.

Thy brother hath thy lips instead

Of he who holds thy spirit fast

With fragrant kisses now long past

And nothing lies between thy legs

To blossom.

Ophelia,

As like from bed thou dost appear with fallen gown

Perchance to dream, perchance to drown

Beneath the weeping willow tree.

The soul doth shift from easy grace

When once devoted lovers part.

A floral dirge becomes thine art

For nothing lies within thy heart

To blossom,

Ophelia.

❦