I only trod the silent deck:
God’s anger walked the boisterous deep,
But little did I reck;
When in the storm, before my eyes,
My memory’s virgin queen,
The dead, the sainted Geraldine,
Stood calmly pointing to the skies,
Madonna-like in mien.
I waved her from me, and she waned;
I saw not, know not, how, or where;