Ophelia

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.

- William Shakespeare -

Photographed by my love

Shared with Sweet Shot Tuesday, Our World , Image-in-ing, Yamini McLean, MIXIT! 
WW@Crafty Spice, Create with Joy, Visible Monday, Curious as a Cathy, What I Wore 
Wednesday around the World, Weekend Blog Party, Saturday Show Off, Creative Mondays
Hat Attack #15 @Style Crone , Literary Stylings  , Roses of Inspiration