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.

Yesterdays. By Ella Wheeler Wilcox.
London: Gay & Hancock, 1916.

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