by Arlo Bates (1850 - 1918)

The lupine
Language: English 
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 ! 

Authorship

Musical settings (art songs, Lieder, mélodies, (etc.), choral pieces, and other vocal works set to this text), listed by composer (not necessarily exhaustive)


Researcher for this text: Emily Ezust [Administrator]

Text added to the website: 2009-06-17 00:00:00
Last modified: 2014-06-16 10:03:15
Line count: 24
Word count: 122