Elizabeth "Lizzy" Siddal Rossetti
The real life Model For Millais "Ophelia"


Wherefore art thou, Oh Lizzy Siddal?
Maiden of silent, delicate distress
You gave your face, lucid, white cold
For the sake of obsessive painters
First Deverell, Then Millais
Then Rossetti being your fate

Floating there as Ophelia, hour after hour
You almost met a familiar death.
Millais captured your exquisite beauty
But cared not of freezing waters.
Taken for granted, They all thought
they could carelessly immortalize you.

You gave of yourself, in honor
Behind tapestry curtains, you loved
For all knew the temperament of artists
You waited patiently, to become Mrs. Rossetti
A small reward for a floating beauty

Sickly and frail, your beauty prevailed
But brains, they did surprise many.
You dared to hold your own, to be cast aside
In your single, stark whiteness.
As clones, took your place beyond the paintbrush.

You watched as you lived the life
Similar to that of Shakespeare’s Mad Woman.
The victim, hostess, femme fatal held not
Your true heart. You lived even shortly
To dispel the character’s myth, they made real.

Your heartache was modern, that of flattery.
Being beautiful, once, but rendered soulless.
A lie. The truth is you loved, defenseless
You loved, and could not help it, that you
Were beautiful. But others could not see past.

So you wrote, of empty sorrows, and failure
That you did not provoke. They used you Lizzy.
And the Laudanum eased the pain, numbing
You silent, except for your written words.
You were unable to bring an heir to vanity.

I weep for you Lizzy, as you are captured
Eternally beneath brush stokes of selfishness.
However beautiful you were, Palms turned upwards
I see you Lizzy. I see you! Not a painter’s model.
Frozen as Ophelia, I know why you must have cried.

They stole from you, the last of your youth
The last pinkness of cheek, the last drop of dew
Keeping lips supple, the last sparkle of eyes
Drawing men to melt. The last shining strand
of fiery red in your hair. ‘Twas all gone. Exploited.

I have no pity, for your haunt, your subject.
For he was drawn to your beauty, and partook.
Many men drew back their paintbrushes in heed.
But he madly embraced your face in many works.
Sapping you lifeless, with each image he produced.

In the end, You floated freshly in Rossetti's mind.
However, he did not paint you frozen.
You gazed lively into his betraying soul.
Driving him mad. Sending him into desperate decline.
Tasting his own color, his own brush strokes of
death.

Your beauty lives, sweet Lizzy, of Pre-Raphaelite.
Even in revenge, Your fare thee well earned.
I know that your face was just painted
All too real. But your heart was purposely erased.
Which only goes to say, that the artist knew!

They all knew you were fair of heart
The only thing they painstakingly tried to alter
To no avail, your spirit shone through
Like a stain bleeding gloriously to the surface
Just so they could steal your words, burried with you.

Fear not sweet Lizzy, your work is done.
I will send you a flower in my heart of hearts.
And let it drift down river, releasing you
From your frozen position in time
Freeing you from the brush strokes of still life.

Please visit this site to see her poem she wrote titled "Worn Out" http://www.artmagick.com/poetry/poem180.asp