haunt my days,

she whispers,

butter me up quite,

she replies

 

the green groves

of her painting

are sleeping

now

there is

no disguise

 

her speckled dust

is faded sunlight

in her too-familiar sight

her soul

declines from the light

 

she's a-tumbling

through the grasses

O! she's a-dying

here tonight

 

out of mind

and out of sight