Bad Poetry: Mystical Love Sonnet

It's an exercise in verse form, but it wasn't an assignment; it popped into my mind one morning when I woke up full of adolescent rapturous joy, age eighteen or nineteen. I still wake up cheerful, most days, but have generally outgrown poems like this one.

"Thee" is, of course, God, and choosing between "-s" and "-eth" verb endings to fit the line was typical of the minor Renaissance poets I'd been reading.

O are there words to sing my love of Thee?

I covet Thee as flowers covet rain,

Which day by day their living doth sustain;

Or as they covet sun, so I do Thee,

Which calleth them to bloom by its warm light.

I cherish Thee as rrees may do that wind

Which only freeth them form roots that bind.

I wait Thee as the owl awaits the night,

Its dark-lit eyes being blind to common day.

I rise to seek Thee ere the day's begun,

And follow Thee throughout till it is done.

I love Thee as the traveller loves the way.

I need Thee as the robins need to sing.

I wait Thee as the land awaits the spring.