By Bud Koenemund
Must I await thy call 'til Doomsday come?
O, wilt thou grant my wish: either to claim
This disconsolate heart as thine in sum,
Surrendering thy bosom to the flames
Of that passion enkindled by your eyes;
Or, emancipate a soul thus enslaved –
Bound by my devotion I'll not deny –
Allowing, through grace, a mind to be saved?
If thy will be the former, affection
Is mine; if latter, I'll be forever
Persecuted for my self-deception;
Withering as doubt clouds each endeavour.
All that I am I
once more offer thee,
And beg: requite my love or set me free.