Only a glove that has touched her fingers,
But it seems to me something half divine.
A delicate fragrance about it lingers,
And it stirs my blood like wine—
Yes, thrills and warms me like wine.
So well I remember the night she wore it—
How I held the hand in its dainty glove,
And whispered sweetly as I leaned o’er it—
Whispered a tale of love—
A story of my mad love.
There was mirth, and music, and light and laughter,
The viols played and the dancers whirled.
We were part of it all—but a moment after
Were alone in love’s fair world—
Alone in God’s own world.
But now of that night of glow and splendour,
Of happy hope and beautiful love,
Of youthful dreams that were sweetly tender,
There is nothing left but a glove,
Nothing but this one glove.
REMINDERS
When in the early dawn I hear the thrushes,
And like a flood of waters o’er my heart
The memory of another summer rushes,
How can I rise up, and perform my part?
When in the languid eve I hear the wailing
Of the uncomforted sad mourning dove,
Whose grief, like mine, seems deep as unavailing,
What will I do with all this wealth of love?
When the sweet rain falls over hills and meadows,
And the tall poplar’s silver leaves are wet,
And, like my soul, the world seems draped in shadow,
How shall I hush this passionate regret?
When the wild bee is wooing the red clover,
And the fair rose smiles on the butterfly,
Missing thy smile and kiss, O love, my lover,
Who on God’s earth so desolate as I?
My tortured senses new despair will borrow
From those reminders of a vanished day,
That was as full of joy as this of sorrow—
O beautiful, sad summer keep away!