Sadly my heart one comfort keeps, That, towards the end, she took my hands And said, as one who understands, "Had I but seen! But love that weeps, Sees only as its loss commands," And sighed. Beneath this stone she sleeps.
Yes; I have suffered for that sin; Yet in no instance would I shun What I should suffer. Many a one, Who heard my tale, has tried to win Me to believe that Hamilton It was not; and, though proven kin,
This had not saved him. Still the stain Of the intention--had I erred And 't was not he--had writ the word Red on my soul that branded Cain; For still my error had incurred The fact of guilt that would remain.
Ah, love at best is insecure, And lives with doubt and vain regret; And hope and faith, with faces set Upon the past, are never sure; And through their fever, grief, and fret The heart may fail that should endure.
For in ourselves, however blend The passions that make heaven and hell, Is evil not accountable For most the good we comprehend? And through these two, or ill, or well, Man must evolve his spiritual end.
It is with deeds that we must ask Forgiveness; for upon this earth, Life walks alone from very birth With death, hope tells us is a mask For life beyond of vaster worth, Where sin no more sets love a task.
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.