“And some for me,” she whispered all those many years ago.
Drifting down the river in the current’s gentle flow.
Sorrowful she lost his love, her rags a favored gown.
Still in love although its heavy weight would take her down.

Her brother all remaining now.
Her love and father lost.
Her weeds and flowers told the price
That each would pay in cost.

He asked in her orisons she remember all his sins.
And now the current lays her in an eddy as it spins.
The softened mud receives her like an offering that’s due:
The gentle, fair Ophelia, a flowery sprig of rue.

Oh, she deserved far better than a bitter boy untrue.
The river silt blocks out the sky so clear and bright of hue,
and seals up Ophelia’s unseeing eyes of blue.
Insane and sad Ophelia, a sweet bouquet of rue.

In pain, the mad Ophelia,
bouquet
of
bitter
rue