Ophelia,
infamous, painted maiden of history's tragic tales; most clear cheeked maiden
Fair,
by her ebony hair and chiseled brow; her plushness and dewy lips
Delightful,
in her dreams; eternally, her stars wished upon
Enshrined,
within her love mangled song—struck on harping chords, forever singing
Like,
dreary notes pleaded by a Sicilian princess on belling-tolls of love true
“Get me to the Arno; thrust me in!” by the mouth of the Ligurian Sea
Her echoed words prayed
Such lovely a maiden, pure
If she drowned, what would be?
Stars, thus wished on, would sink to the bottom of deep blues beneath glowing, Tuscany hills
Tormentings would ensue amid the splash, beneath crushing torrents
And thus would heaving songs evermore belt on sung-streaming hues above, CRYING!
'e mi tormento!’ on strings of 'bello, bello’
Ophelia, beauty young and fair, such was her fate