These endless winter nights, the lazy moon is slow
to drive her chariot across the silent sky.
I wait — it seems for ever — for the cock to crow.
The night is like a year. In turmoil here I lie,
and would have died of misery, but for a guest:
a spectral visitor. You come on stealthy feet
to comfort me and, naked in my arms, to rest
while whispering endearments fraudulent — and sweet.
The real you I know is cruel, fierce and proud,
but with your phantom every pleasure is allowed,
in strict seclusion, to relieve my lovesick pain.
Falling asleep beside your ghost, I don’t disdain
the soothing fantasies a substitute can bring.
In love, a little self-deception’s no bad thing.
