Song to Ophelia
Unto thy grass-hidden charms
Nature worketh no alarms;
Changeth all thy breath to dew,
And thine eyes to violets blue,
Weaveth all thy waving hair
Into beams to light the air!
Thus the song—and yet he saith
“Ah! how sad a thing is Death!”
Over thy earth-covered breast
Springtime snow doth lightly rest;
Never hath been spun a sheet
For thy purity more meet;
Lovelier the earth shall be
Now that it doth prison thee!
Thus the song—and yet he saith
“Ah! how sad a thing is Death!”