It’s Only a Little Glove

IT’S ONLY A LITTLE GLOVE.

It’s only a tiny glove,
  So ragged, and old, and worn—
You scarce would stoop in your daily path
  To look at the thing forlorn;
You never would think by those fingers small,
  A heart could be rent and torn.

It’s only a little thing,
  This treasure I hoard and keep;
But many a vision of joy it brings,
  And sometimes it makes me weep.
And I dream a dream of a fair-hair’d boy
  Under the flowers asleep.

It’s only a little glove,
  Yet dearer it is to me,
For the restless feet that pattered and beat
  Their music upon my knee—
Dearer for sorrow, and care and pain
  Than the riches of land or sea.

It’s only a tiny thing;
  But I love it with deepest love—
A golden link in the chain that binds
  My soul to the world above;
And I know I am nearer to Heaven each time
  I bow o’er that tiny glove.

I often go looking for something specific in that great Black Hole of a library, Google Books, but wander off on a rabbit trail. I found this poem by Matthias Barr in The New England Farmer, 1868. I know it’s contrivedly sentimental – even in his own time that was a “hallmark” (ha!) of the author’s poetry:

“avoiding minute criticism, Mr. Barr’s poetry may be said to contain more of ‘goodness’ than of greatness”
“touching all the sources of parental feeling”
“sweet little poetic effusions”
“there is something in the tones of his poems on children that brings tears to tender eyes”

And one reviewer rivaled Dorothy Parker’s wit: “Mr. Barr has well earned his present reputation and we trust he will long enjoy it.” Hmm.

Nonetheless, the poem seems made for these sweet little mitts. Someone saved the tiny fragments of linen, lace, and silk for two or three hundred years. You can almost picture a baby’s hands going straight to its mouth, indifferent to its fancy dress. Usually only the finest baby’s clothing survives, perhaps ones that were worn just for a Christening and then packed away. These must indeed have been dearer than the riches of land or sea!

Since I’d wandered down a rabbit trail anyway, I continued searching for more on the Scottish poet Matthias Barr. An interview in 1911 revealed a surprising sense of humor with a wry touch of self-deprecation. He seemed to be quite a clever gentleman, a musician and artist as well as a poet, but it’s the children’s poems that have (sort of) survived, with their appeal to tender hearts. We don’t always need profound words for comfort, sometimes we need sweet ones. I think the person who first saved these little mitts would understand.

N.B. Mr. Barr was quite a handsome gentleman, if this picture is a true likeness!