|by Betsy Hanes Perry
I rambled through the old graveyard,
Because a thought was in my head
Of finely-whittled ash and yew
And granting peace to restless dead.
And when the moon had stabbed the night
And mists clung round the old stone cross
I came upon a stranger fair
Who stole a kiss. Ah, mine the loss!
For he was Sired to kill my kind
And I was born to be his foe
Yet from that night his doom was mine
And who staked him killed me also.
Though I must die before I'm old
To keep the innocent from harm
I hope that Death may give me leave
To rest at last within his arms.
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