Camilla clad in cotton
runs the course of Italian plains
cutting Trojan princes to the ground
while dark death lusts after her

no thrown spear, no swung ax
nor penetrating shaft of Diana’s arrow
stops the reaching hand of pale rider
grasping for the chaste
grasping for the chased

till lofted javelin tears life away
as moon cries for hunter now hunted
and Latin ladies give loud lament
at the death of Camilla clad in cotton
now a shroud for the barrow