And I whispered "yes," for my heart had thought Her own thought through--that life were a hell To us so asunder.--And the blade I caught With a sudden hand; and she leaned; and--well, What a little wound, and the blood it brought To crimson her bosom!--I set her there In that carven chair; then turned the blade,-- With its white-gold handle thick with the glare, Barbaric, of jewels, wildly inlaid,-- To my breast, for the poisonous point rent bare. A stain of blood on her breast, and one Black red o'er my heart, you see.--'Tis good To die with her here!... Does the sinking sun, Through the dull deep west burst, banked with blood?-- Or is it that life will at last have done?... So _you_ are her husband? and--well, you see, You see she is dead ... and her face--how white! Fate bungled the cards!--did this _have_ to be?-- What matters it now!--For at last the night Falls and the darkness covers me. GERALDINE Ah, Geraldine, my Geraldine, That night of love when last we met, You have forgotten, Geraldine-- I never dreamed you would forget. Ah, Geraldine, my 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, Less lovely were 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 last we met, You have forgotten, Geraldine-- I never dreamed you would forget. 'Twas 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 moths of flame that swarmed above: And through the roses, o'er the park, Star-like the fireflies sowed 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.