Today's shirt is from the genius of Threadless and a few years ago would've been too controversial to wear to a high school as a large segment of the student body identified seriously with the "emo" philosophy. But, like all major cultural movements, "emo" grew to become a parody of itself. The word "emo" now holds the record for the most crowd-sourced definitions of any word in the Urban Dictionary, most of which are "taking the Mick", as my very-not-emo students in England would've said.
Now whether Shakespeare would've cared much for the poetic ramblings of today's over-sensitive, idle youth is not really up for debate. The only poem we know for sure that the actor, William Shaksper, wrote was that which was engraved upon his tombstone:
To digg the dust enclosed heare;
Bleste be the man that spares thes stones,
And curst be he that moves my bones
A fun bit of verse but of a far different voice than that which penned Gertrude's grieving report of Ophelia's drowning:
|"Ophelia" as captured by Sir John Everett Millais|
That shows his hoar leaves in the glassy stream.
There with fantastic garlands did she come
Of crowflowers, nettles, daisies, and long purples,
That liberal shepherds give a grosser name,
But our cold maids do dead men's fingers call them.
There on the pendant boughs her coronet weeds
Clamb'ring to hang, an envious sliver broke,
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 chaunted 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,
Pull'd the poor wretch from her melodious lay
To muddy death. - Hamlet: IV, vii, 162-179