Geraldine, the moon is shining
With so soft, so bright a ray;
Seems it not that eve's declining
Ushered in a fairer day?
While the wind is whispering only,
Fair across the water borne;
Let us in this silence lonely
Sit beneath the ancient thorn.
Wild the road, and rough and dreary;
Barren all the moorland round;
Rude the couch that rests us weary;
Mossy stone and heathy ground.
But when winter storms were meeting
In the moonless midnight dome,
Did we heed the tempests beating,
Howling round our spirits' home?
No; that tree with branches riven
Whitening in the whirl of snow,
As it tossed against the heaven,
Sheltered happy hearts below.
And at Autumn's mild returning
Shall our feet forget the way?
And in Cynthia's silvan morning,
Geraldine, wilt thou delay?
October 17, 1838.