The Glove Of The Live Lady.

Her glove! It was rare Ben who sung it,
That best of gloves of the lady dead!
Another's here, as one had flung it
In anger at her lover's head.
Was it but this that it was made for,
One of a pair perhaps he'd paid for,
To have it favored in this fashion?
But gloves are gloves, and passion's passion!
And he, it may be, liked her better
For her rich anger as she threw it:
'Twas worth a glove to so upset her
And know he had the power to do it,
So he might kiss the white hands after
Her passion turned to tears and laughter!

poem by Robert Crawford
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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