WHY cherish thus the senseless thing?
Do memories around it cling
Of joys long past?
Or does it speak of present bliss?
Do sweet last word, or parting kiss,
Charms o'er it cast?
Now were it but a thing with life,
In which were earthly passions rife,
Then I could see
Why you should press it to your heart,
Nor let it from your hand depart--
It cannot free.
You touch it, and you are unmann'd--
I hold it passive in my hand--
No thrill of love
Shoots through my veins; you bow before it,
The loving slave of her who wore it--
That white kid glove!
You fought for freedom. You were brave,
I grant it. Even now you rave
Yet you are subject of a queen,
Whose power greater is, I ween,
Than Yankee nation.
Yes, e'en the touch of her small hand
Is equal to a stern command,
Because you love.
You walk submissive in her band,
And when you cannot hold her hand,
You hold her glove.
I do not judge thee--go thy way.
I have a glove--(what can I say?)
And I adore it.
Ah! often in the hours for sleep,
I kiss the glove, and sadly weep
For one who wore it.