John W. Waterhouse. Ophelia, 1889
My love she lies under the ocean
My love she lies under the sea
Her eyes all unseeing
She quietly dreams
I hear her calling to me, to me
O, I hear my love calling to me.
Her wild hair a-floating
Bound up in the weeds
Her fair lips are parted
In a deep soundless scream
I hear her calling to me, to me
O, I hear my love calling to me.
Her dress it is tangled
She ne'er could pull free
It carried her down
To the vast swirling deep
I hear her calling to me, to me
O, I hear my love calling to me.
The ring on her finger
It bound her to me
I shall not love another
Unto her I still cleave
I hear my love calling to me, to me
O, I hear my love calling to me.
Her spirit is restless
Her shade knows no peace
Her plaintive cries echo
On the salt-heavy breeze
I hear my love calling to me, to me
O, I hear my love calling to me.
Parted by death
My soul has no ease
So I'll cast myself in
To the dark, rolling sea
My love, I am coming to thee, to thee
O, my love I am coming to thee.
© 2005 sibylla