The Lupine
by Arlo Bates

Ah, lupine, with silvery leaves
And blossoms blue as the skies,
I know a maid like thee,
And blue, too, are her eyes.
Gray as a nun’s her dress ;
How lowly,
And holy
Her mien, cannot mere words express.

Fair lupine, the dew-drop shines
A gem night gives to thee ;
So pure her radiant soul
Within her breast must be.
Like thee, she dwells alone ;
All sweetness,
And meetness,
As in thyself in her are known.

Ah, lupine, I pluck thy bloom,
But how her grace may I win?
So pure, so fair, is she
My suit may not begin
Unless I send thy flower
To prove her,
And move her,
Me with her priceless love to dower !