To A Pair Of Gloves

Jus' a little pair o' gloves,
Sorter thin an' worn;
With th' fingers neatly darned,
Like they had been torn.
Jus' a little pair o' gloves,
Not s' much ter see. . . .
Not a soul on earth can guess
What they mean ter me!

Jus' a little pair o' gloves,
Sorter tossed aside;
Limp an' quiet, folded up,
Like their soul had died.
Every finger seems ter look
Lonely, an' my hand
Trembles as it touches them -
Who can understand?

Jus' a little pair o' gloves,
Ah, she tossed 'em there. . . .
Singin'-like, she turned ter go,
Didn't have a care!
Kissin' them? A prayer, a tear?
God, my head WILL bow -
Jus' a little pair o' gloves,
. . . . Empty, now!

by Margaret Elizabeth Sangster

Comments (2)

'tis nothing more Than the rude embryo of a little Dome Or Pleasure-house, once destined to be built Among the birch-trees of this rocky isle. Thanks poet for this highly imaginative poem.
Rude embryo of a pleasure dome, fantastic imagination. Thanks for sharing.