CALM dost thou lie in wave-swept resting-place.
No more the glances of the haughty Dane
Can fill thy gentle breast with longing vain.
The waves that stilled thy heart have drowned thy pain,
And washed the sorrow from thy sweet, pale face,
Ophelia.
Thine be the violets, but his the rue.
Though hope should sleep, and deep regret should wake,
Thy clasped hand from Death's he could not take;
The spell on those mute lips he could not break.
What more with life and love hast thou to do,
Ophelia?