For Renaissance British Lit, my professor had us try to write a traditional sonnet. This is my attempt. I don't think it turned out too horribly, though, the end needs some work I think. Otherwise, I'm pretty happy with it.
My Lord, He Wanders Where He Wills, Alone
My lord, he wanders where he wills, alone,
With little thought to what his love may say.
By night, the stars call, “Come, we’ll show the way.”
He heeds their siren cries; his soul is flown
To heights that only gods can navigate
And runs as free as goats upon the mount.
Enraptured like Narcissus at the fount,
My lord longs to resume adventures late.
So I, his love, am left abandonéd
By his pursuit of planetary odes.
I have no skill that can compare, which bodes
Great ill, for as I lay upon my bed,
I languish like the nymph called Echo who
For love could nothing but repeat to woo.
