An empty glove—long withering in the grasp
Of Time’s cold palm. I lift it to my lips,—
And lo, once more I thrill beneath its clasp,
In fancy, as with odorous finger-tips
It reaches from the years that used to be
And proffers back love, life and all, to me.
II
Ah! beautiful she was beyond belief:
Her face was fair and lustrous as the moon’s;
Her eyes—too large for small delight or grief,—