Færie dearest, was it loe soothfast or a façade;
A serenade siren’d to lure — Zounds! not to court me?
A mænad, yet the sweetest colleen —
Certes didst thou me unveil meekly life pristine
Lorelei
A poet of tragedies, scribe I lauds to Death
Yet who the hell was I to dare?
Lorelei
Canst thou not see thou to me needful art?
Canst thou not see the loss of loe painful is?
Dædally didst thou perform the tragic pasquinade
For all years a damndest and driegh’d accolade —
Caus’d for all eyes mazéd to behold a mêlée;
In the midst did I swainly cast thee my bouquet:
The one and sole faggot that feedeth the fire
Bellow´d bidingly by my heart’s quailing quire
Lorelei
A poet of tragedies, scribe I lauds to Death
Yet who the hell was I to dare?
Lorelei
Canst thou not see thou to me needful art?
Canst thou not see the loss of loe painful is?
Perchance author I thee this ikon’d apologue for aught
Doth the wecht burthen thee?, then bethink thine afterthought:
'Tween Æther and 'Nether art thou the peerless phœnix —
Prithee, darlingmost! — court me rather than the peevish prolix
Oh how I pine for the loss of what Gothic metal once was, the haunting voices, choirs, the by gone fashion, the feelings of loss, the archaic poetry, passion, and the references to Gothic fiction.