The madness of the Mississippi mist
settled like dew on her golden hair
she danced around the field that night
arms aloft, without 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.