Pampas grass drifts on the still watery surface, Ophelia's resting place.
. . .
"We know what we are, but know not what we may be..."
"When down her weedy trophies and herself
Fell in the weeping brook. Her clothes spread wide;
And, mermaid-like, awhile they bore her up:
Which time she chanted snatches of old tunes;
As one incapable of her own distress,
Or like a creature native and indued
Unto that element: but long it could not be
Till that her garments, heavy with their drink..."
Mike de Sousa
Free to enjoy at Public Art. May not be used for commercial gain. Copyright maintained.