Why?

WHY is it that I keep her glove— Poor little phantom of lost love— Why was it that I wore her ring, And love the songs she used to sing, And treasure under lock and key, The letters she has written me? Why? Why is it that where’er I go, As footsteps follow in the snow, As low and light, she seems to glide Along the highway at my side? Yet, when my arms seek to embrace Her form, then vanishes her face. Why? Why is it that no other tone Falls on my ear as did her own? No other hand so soft and white, No other eye so warm and bright— Though other lips I since have pressed, I something missed—the truth you’ve guessed. Why?