  IAn 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. IIAh! beautiful she was beyond belief: Her face was fair and lustrous as the moon’s; Her eyes—too large for small delight or grief,— The smiles of them were Laughter’s afternoons; Their tears were April showers, and their love— All sweetest speech swoons ere it speaks thereof. IIIWhite-fruited cocoa shown against the shell Were not so white as was her brow below The cloven tresses of the hair that fell Across her neck and shoulders of nude snow; Her cheeks—chaste pallor, with a crimson stain— Her mouth was like a red rose rinsed with rain. IVAnd this was she my fancy held as good— As fair and lovable—in every wise As peerless in pure worth of womanhood As was her wondrous beauty in men’s eyes.— Yet, all alone, I kiss this empty glove— The poor husk of the hand I loved—and love. |
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