Her death is quite romantic.

William Shakespeare - Hamlet (Act IV, Scene VII):

"There is a willow grows aslant a brook,
That shows his hoar leaves in the glassy stream;
There with fantastic garlands did she come
Of crow-flowers, 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 pendent boughs her coronet weeds
Clambering 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 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,
Pull'd the poor wretch from her melodious lay
To muddy death."

John Millais - Ophelia (1852):



Bob Dylan - Desolation Row:

"Now Ophelia, she's 'neath the window,
For her I feel so afraid,
On her twenty-second birthday
She already is an old maid.

To her, death is quite romantic,
She wears an iron vest,
Her profession's her religion,
Her sin is her lifelessness,
And though her eyes are fixed upon
Noah's great rainbow,
She spends her time peeking
Into Desolation Row."