The Romance of a Glove

HERE on my desk it lies,

Here as the daylight dies,

One small glove just her size—

Six and a quarter;

Pearl-gray, a color neat,

Deux boutons all complete,

Faint-scented, soft and sweet;

Could glove be smarter?

Can I the day forget,

Years ago, when the pet

Gave it me?—where we met

Still I remember;

Then ’t was the summer-time;

Now as I write this rhyme

Children love pantomime—

’T is in December.

Fancy my boyish bliss

Then when she gave me this,

And how the frequent kiss

Crumpled its fingers;

Then she was fair and kind,

Now, when I’ve changed my mind,

Still some scent undefined

On the glove lingers.

Though she’s a matron sage,

Yet I have kept the gage;

While, as I pen this page,

Still comes a goddess,

Her eldest daughter, fair,

With the same eyes and hair:

Happy the arm, I swear,

That clasps her bodice.

Heaven grant her fate be bright,

And her step ever light

As it will be to-night,

First in the dances.

Why did her mother prove

False when I dared to love?

Zounds! I shall burn the glove!

This my romance is.