Geraldine

Ah, Geraldine, lost Geraldine,

That night of love, when first we met,

You have forgotten, Geraldine —

I never dreamed you would forget.

Ah, Geraldine, sweet Geraldine,

More lovely than that Asian queen,

Scheherazade, the beautiful,

Who in her orient palace cool

Of India, for a thousand nights

And one, beside her monarch lay,

Telling — while sandal-scented lights

And music stole the soul away —

Love tales of old Arabia,

Full of enchantments and emprise —

But no enchantments like your eyes.

Ah, Geraldine, loved Geraldine,

More lovely than those maids, I ween,

Pampinea and Lauretta, who,

In gardens old of dusk and dew,

Sat with their lovers, maid and man,

In stately days Italian,

And in quaint stories, that we know

Through grace of good Boccaccio,

Told of fond loves, some false, some true,—

But, Geraldine, none false as you.

Ah, Geraldine, lost Geraldine,

That night of love, when first we met,

You have forgotten, Geraldine —

I never dreamed you would forget.

‘ T was summer, and the moon swam high,

A great pale pearl within the sky:

And down that purple night of love

The stars, concurrent spark on spark,

Seemed fiery moths that swarmed above:

And through the roses, o'er the park,

Star-like the fire-flies filled the dark:

A mocking-bird in some deep tree,

Drowsy with dreams and melody,

Like a magnolia bud, that, dim,

Opens and pours its soul in musk,

Gave to the moonlight and the dusk

Its heart's pure song, its evening hymn.

Oh, night of love! when in the dance

Your heart thrilled rapture into mine,

As in a state of necromance

A mortal hears a voice divine.

Oh, night of love! when from your glance

I drank sweet death as men drink wine.

You wearied of the waltz at last.

I led you out into the night.

Warm in my hand I held yours fast.

Your face was flushed; your eyes were bright.

The moon hung like a shell of light

Above the lake, above the trees:

And borne to us with fragrances

Of roses that were ripe to fall,

The soul of music from the hall

Beat in the moonlight and the breeze,

As youth's wild heart grown weary of

Desire and its dream of love.

I held your arm and, for awhile,

We walked along the balmy aisle

Of flowers that, like velvet, dips

Unto the lake which lilies tile

Like stars; and hyacinths, like strips

Of heaven: and beside a fall,

That, down a ferned and mossy wall,

Fell in the lake,— deep, woodbine-wound,

A latticed summer-house we found;

A green kiosk,— through which the sound

Of waters and of breezes swayed,

And honeysuckle bugles played

Soft serenades of perfume sweet,—

Around which ran a rustic seat.

And seated in that haunted nook,—

I know not how it was,— a word,

A touch, perhaps, a sigh, a look,

Was father to the kiss I took;

Great things grow out of small I've heard.

And then it was I took between

My hands your face, loved Geraldine,

And gazed into your eyes, and told

The story ever new though old.

You did not look away, but met

My eyes with eyes whose lids were wet

With tears of truth; and you did lean

Your cheek to mine, sweet Geraldine,—

I never dreamed you would forget.

The night-wind and the water sighed:

And through the leaves, that stirred above,

The moonbeams swooned with music of

The dance — soft things in league with love:

I never dreamed that you had lied.

How all comes back now, Geraldine!

The melody; the glimmering scene;

Your angel face; and ev'n, between

Your lawny breasts, the heart-shaped jewel,—

To which your breath gave fluctuant fuel,—

A rosy star of stormy fire;

The snowy drift of your attire,

Lace-deep and fragrant: and your hair,

Disordered in the dance, held back

By one gemmed pin,— a moonbeam there,

Half-drowned within its night-like black.

And I who sat beside you then,

Seemed blessed above all mortal men.

I loved you for the way you sighed;

The way you said, “I love but you;”

The smile with which your lips replied;

Your lips, that from my bosom drew

The soul; your looks, like undenied

Caresses, that seemed naught but true:

I loved you for the violet scent

That clung about you as a flower;

Your moods, where shine and shadow blent,

An April-tide of sun and shower;

You were my creed, my testament,

Wherein I read of God's high power.

Was it because the loving see

Only what they desire shall be

There in the well-beloved's soul,

Affection and affinity,

That I beheld in you the whole

Of my love's image? and believed

You loved as I did? nor perceived

‘ T was but a mask, a mockery!

Ah, Geraldine, lost Geraldine,

That night of love, when first we met,

You have forgotten, Geraldine —

I never dreamed you would forget.