Ophelia, her lips and eyes
lambent shards of butterflies,
having farewelled the fleeting clouds,
the everlasting northern skies,
freighted deep upon the stream
with yearning for the brooding Dane,
fringed by rushes, screened by willow-
tresses from sun's fitful flame,
sang as swans are said to sing,
plangently, at their demise,
and gave herself to water
as she fain would yield
to love's clear fire…
Ophelia, her lips and eyes...
© Copyright: Jena Woodhouse, 2004
Свидетельство о публикации №104060100906
Свидетельство о публикации №104060100906
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