Here's another one:
A fanatic, a puritan,
a flame forgotten;
here's fire, still unmade,
squalling unafraid,
en route to Life's masquerade.
He, who dons this blue,
this rag of rue;
he, who lives so true-
will he find me at the ball?
Will he, my name call?
And will that be all?
Will he a stranger seem?
Or my lord supreme,
as we kiss to blaspheme?
Will I in glory bask,
as I see through the mask?
Will I be kissed, I ask. . .
I wish the bud bloomed;
Oh. . .I long to be consumed!
Yes, too much have I presumed-
for what use this scrutiny-
when love, that is mutiny,
is seldom the destiny?
So let there be me and him,
and Fate and its whim;
and let pain its cup brim-
for this known sorrow
that Fate would borrow,
shall bring us tomorrow.
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