To my mischievous mistress

O, playful pixies and faerie sprites,

They are to blame, for they hid you well!

In this vast misty forest of many eerie wights,

I long for thee, whom satyrs hath bound in spell.

 

Precious blossoming flowers and trees sprout here,

Though had they seen the garden in your cheek,

I am certainly sure they’d likely switch to you, dear;

But worry not, milady, It’s not them whom I seek.

 

Charmed by the dazzling wisps and wise tree sages,

Now through the doomed magical grove I tread,

Hoping for the winds to draw you back to golden ages,

In which the most beautiful verses you could read.

 

Should I fail in this empress of finding you in this unholy coven,

Fear not, my mischievous lady, for you’ll be my guest in heaven.