The madness of the Mississippi mist
settled like dew on her golden hair
she danced around the field that night
arms aloft, without a worldly care.
The night birds flying close to her
could hear her crooning an eerie hymn
she was a part of the darkling night
a midnight seraphim.
Her nightgown of pure white cotton
clung to her girlish frame
bare feet flew in a pagan dance
that was wild and without shame.
As untamed as any gypsy wench
she twirled in girlish delight
unseen, unheard by mortal man
a child of the night.
When she tired, she stopped a bit
to speak to the whispering wind
she became the mist, the night,
the darkness called Rosalind.