Love is made of such small things,
Little gestures, lightest touches;
All the promise that It brings
We will long cling to, as much as

We can, when It’s left and gone.
Staying there to view Its traces;
Brooding forthwith and anon
Over long abandoned places

That it touched in yesterdays.
When things were as we intended —
Wond’ring, as we stop to gaze
Why love’s cast aside
Abandoned