Her dress lain white like the snow, of her funeral day,
Her hair as bright as the sun, in the middle of May,
And the clouds gather around, bloating, black and gray;

And they walked her casket to the hole, where she is reposed,
But no one can identify her, her name no one knows,
And she lays within the dirt, on top her grave, a rose;

And during the nights of winter's glory, she comes out seeking love,
No longer inside the ground, but walking just above,
In that white dress that is as white as a peaceful dove;

Dead from the pains of love, inflicted upon her soul,
The price of love is great and she has paid the toll,
She loved him with all her heart, and all her whole;

But he never loved her back, sadness fell like rain,
For this is what caused her horrible alms and her horrible pain,
And was the cause of her end, her downfall....her bane;

And on that rainy night, in her house she cried,
Wanting to be his wife, wanting to be his bride,
The truth she didn't accept, the truth she denied;

She put on her dress of white, and sat on the side of her bed,
Eventually realizing the truth, she went out to the shed,
And with a rope and knife in hand, painted the white dress red.