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. 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.