From Polonius In His Dark Heaven To Ophelia, Pulled From The River

Polonius
     Why did you do it, Ophelia?
     Was it really because of me?
     Was I so poor a father?
     Sixty summers before I held you in my arms,
     and then I had to be father and mother to you.
     I never knew the levity of youth -
     it was buried with a like intensity
     in your mother’s grave, and I
     just a dried up husk left behind.
     I must have always been old to you.
     Afraid, I gave you words in place
     of a mother’s comforting embrace -
     empty words to deal with the likes of Hamlet ...

Ophelia
     It is too late to speak of Hamlet:
     it has always been too late.
     My life surrounded by men,
     my thoughts shaped for them.
     Perhaps, if I had known my mother ...