When I was in school, I used to write Renaissance-style poetry.

How may a man indeed turn me so blind?

It’s ‘neath the cliffs he’s placed his dreadful lair

And pacing ‘bout these peaks with angst of mind

I’ll fall, then wake a captive of Despair

 

With thoughts that ‘fect the mind with dreadful stuff

And wrestling Doubt I do nocturnal rave

Convincing me I’ll ne’er be good enough

Despairing as I pace about my cave

 

Then tongue will fail, and eyes be downward cast

As silver tongues enthrall and spite my sense

This worrisome wight Despair descends so fast

And might stay hours 'fore his acerb ‘lents

 

But I need not be prisoner ere long

Should just One bright and kind do bade me rise

Despair will quit the mind when friendly song

Sings Truth to be heard over doubting lies

To catch that glimpsed full beauty of one’s love

Language oft feels too rough in chiefest rime

 

And nearing wordless, we must then think of

That rush with which we meet with the Sublime

 

For with my love having spent so much time

That one should think the picture is full form

 

Instead with constant heart, but curious mind

Delights an image clearer than before

And with each moment ‘yond the veil, to know her more

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