A Petrarchan-esque Sonnet

There he stands, more splendid than Leander.
To him the gods granted strength unsurpassed.
Power is revealed in his broad shoulder.
Auburn curls are the laurels he’s amassed.
So sweet a face the world has never seen.
Refreshing wellsprings of joy are his eyes.
Glistening snow dims with his smile’s sheen.
His ever playful lips are my demise.
Angelic choirs sound not so sweet
when compared to the rich strains of his voice
And gentle Hero is a brutal cheat
set against loving kindness, his by choice.
I know not why God chose this to grant me
But of this I never wish to be free.