As I went through death's dusky fields,
death's dusky fields and dark lanes dewy,
(no moon there was but many stars),
a sweet witch met me.
A cap she had upon her hair,
a short shift open, all her clothing,
her breasts were peaked, her eyes shone bright,
and her lips did sing.
She laughed aloud. Our laughter rang
like hell's fire-wheels and cunning cars.
We kissed and clasped and struggled there
under the stars.
Our hate was equal to our love.
I am for ever hers, but she
hath slain me with her sweetness, and
passes with me.
Francis William Lauderdale Adams, 1887