Once a Week (magazine)/Series 1/Volume 2/The gloves
It was a sunny summer’s day,
The flowers deck’d dale and hill;
And gurglingly the streamlet ran
That turn’d the clatt’ring mill.
The murmurous flies of every tint
Flew glittering through the air;
And buzzing bees did from the limes
Their precious treasures bear.
The air was languid, calm, and sweet,
With fragrance overlaid;
The slenderest grass unruffled stood,
The trees no rustle made.
A slumb’rous feeling over all
Its gentle influence shed;
The lark could scarcely warble, as
He floated overhead.
And ’neath a broad far-spreading beech
A lovely girl reposed;
The deep-fringed curtains of her eyes
Serenely o’er them closed.
Her bright brown hair in clusters fell
Upon her healthy cheek;
Her rosy lips were parted as
Some gracious words to speak.
A sunbeam glinting thro’ the tree
Play’d on her forehead fair;
And still more bright and glowing made
The glory of her hair.
I stood and gazed upon that face
As beautiful as Love’s;
Nor wonder you, if stooping low,
I—won a pair of gloves.