Here is another piece of wholly imagined romantic poetry. I think you can take "romantic" in both senses at this point. I was clearly in an archaic mood the day I wrote this, which makes up for the anarchic moods evident in some of my other poems (which you will probably never see). I'm not very fond of this one, but right now I could say the same thing about a lot of the poems I have been holding onto for the past 15 years or so.
My love, I am more often cruel than witty;
Yet thou holdest none above me.
When I gaze upon the passing city,
Nothing half so stirreth up my pity
As that thou art wrong to love me.
A swirl of yens and yearnings of a welter
Press me, drive to strive and prove me:
Prove for thee in storm a ready shelter.
What to say, when in my stride I falter,
But that thou art wrong to love me?
Amid my humors’ bedlam thou art warden.
Ere before thy knees I shrove me,
Not thy countenance, but resolve didst harden:
Thou shouldst give unbidden pardon!
Therefore I am right to love thee.