Gertrude:
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 crow-flowers, 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 pendent boughs her coronet weeds
Clambering 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 chanted snatches of old tunes;
As one incapable of her own distress,
Or like a creature native and indued
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.
Hey wat toevallig, ik zat na te denken over Ophelia terwijl ik mijn feed las! Want ik luister Dat Sparklehorse liedje, Getting It Wrong, die van Ophelia in the creek, caught up in the sticks, somethings can’t be fixed. En toen dacht ik aan hoe mooi ik dit schilderij vind wat jij hier boven post haha. Hm <3
BeantwoordenVerwijderenO indeed! Wat grappig <3 Ik droomde laatst over twee random bij elkaar gezette mensen die aan het wandelen waren en de volgende dag zag ik ze, onaangekondigd, ineens allebei en ging ik met eentje zelfs wandelen.
BeantwoordenVerwijderen