A GLOVE.

Observer, Volume 7, Issue 338, 30 May 1885, Page 8

A GLOVE.

All, yesterday I found a glove Grown shabby, full of tiny rips, But dear to me because my love Once through it thrust her finger tips. A glove one would not care to see Upon his arm along the street ; Yet here I own there is for me No relic in the world more sweet. A faint far scent of lavender Steals from it, us the 'clover smelt When through the fields I walked with her, And plucked the blossoms for her beltiT^ Faith ! but I loved the little hand That used to wear this time-stained thing, Its slightest gesture of command Would set my glad heart fluttering. Or if it touched my finger so, Or smoothed my hair — why I should speak Of those old days? It makes, you know, The tears brim over on my cheek. Poor stained, worn out, long- wristed glove I I think it almost understands That reverently and with love I hold it in my trembling hands. And that it is so dear to me, With its own fragrance, far and faint, Because my darling wore it, she — On earth my love, in heaven my saint.