It was at the grist's mill, like I had seen a ghost,
of the corn that stood, on the back forty grow,
in green with eyes like onyx, as my pulse skipped a beat.

Where tombstones sleep without a moaning peep,
and the raven's nest where monks took keep,
as the frost froze over the Dutch clover.

And I felt a breath over my shoulder,
while counting the sheep,
turning around and saw my ghostly lover.