At Worthing an exile from Geraldine G ——,
How aimless, how wretched an exile is he!
Promenades are not even prunella and leather
To lovers, if lovers can n't foot them together.
He flies the parade, sad by ocean he stands,
He traces a “Geraldine G.” on the sands,
Only “G!” though her loved patronymic is “Green,” —
I will not betray thee, my own Geraldine.
The fortunes of men have a time and a tide,
And Fate, the old Fury, will not be denied;
That name was, of course, soon wiped out by the sea,—
She jilted the exile, did Geraldine G.
They meet, but they never have spoken since that,—
He hopes she is happy — he knows she is fat;
She woo'd on the shore, now is wed in the Strand,—
And I — it was I wrote her name on the sand!