Nov 10, 2025
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. /// don't ask me why i hate myself as i'm circling the drain 'cause death, it takes too long and i can't wait
ophelia from shakespeare's hamlet + tempest by ethel cain
