Is there some kind reality
Where your company can be mine,
Or is the world of Mab’s taunting
Some palace to which you’re confined?

Does your phantasmagorical
Coquettish always have to burn
The stubble of my barren heart
Which cannot help but pine to yearn?

Must your fingers’ cruel caresses,
Like feathers and ice on my skin,
Be so tangible in visions
And felt long after the dreams end?

Is the way you laugh in delight
Honestly necessary, lass?
I still hear its fancy echo;
I’m watching your coy figure pass.