Glove-Life

A bird sat in a rose-bush,
A-singing to my love;
She paid him no attention
Until she dropped her glove.

For he lit down and fetched it
And held it to his breast,
Then flew into the tree-top
And laid it in his nest.

She walked away a-smiling,
A-thinking what she’d see
When next she came and sat there
Beneath that willow tree.

Two weeks and two days later
My love again came by
And heard above some peepings,
Some cheepings way up high.

She saw the tiny darlings
Within her glove of white;
The fingertips in breezes
Were fluttering so light.

She rose and skipped, a-singing,
So blithe she was, so gay,
In love with her own glove-life
That brought alive her day.

Now every spring we sit here
For just an hour or two,
Until we hear him singing—
Then she knows what to do.

She throws her glove out gently—
We turn and look away—
Till whirring wings come sweeping
The light of glove away!

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