My attempt at writing a Petrarchan sonnet... Enjoy!

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The youngest son of pureblood wizard name,
This Weasley boy is quick to steam and ire;
Resentment rushes fast like spreading fire;
Ron sneaks away to sulk and place the blame;
He sits and stews while jealous rage inflames;
And digging deep inside his heart, a spire,
The piercing pain of envy so entire;
This shadow causing grief is Harry’s fame.
But temper and his anger do subside;
He knows that Harry never would be cold;
The fury wanes, forgiveness is a must,
For friends so great, their feelings they confide;
They make amends and now he is consoled;
The jealous beast has given way to trust.

Fin.