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