The Lady of Shalott
Lying, robed in snowy white
That loosely flew to left and right—
The leaves upon her falling light—
Thro’ the noises of the night
She floated down to Camelot.
—Alfred, Lord Tennyson
John Everett Millais O pale Ophelia, beautiful as snow Arthur Rimbaud
O Lord, sir, when a heroine goes mad she always goes into white satin.
—Richard Brinsley Sheridan