Beltane 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
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.
Ophelia! Ophelia!
Ophelia! Ophelia!