Midnight, they say, is the witching hour
When ghosts and goblins walk abroad
But my hour with my witch, my Naiad,
Later is, an hour or two before it dawns
On me O once again that she's an empty spirit,
Like Hamlet's father's ghost substantial in appearance
But insubstantial to the touch.
But just before it dawns my Naiad comes
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem