The Lupine

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!