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As the resident artist at EcoHealth, I pen verse these days inspired by the specter of future pandemics; for my dissertation at Amerika-Institut of LMU München, where I edit a weekly circular on poetry, I'm anatomizing the prosody of E. A. Robinson's sonnets—I also teach English, tutor composition, and lead a literary circle.


Sonnet 98

by William Shakespeare

From you haue I beene absent in the spring, 
When proud pide Aprill (drest in all his trim) 
Hath put a spirit of youth in euery riling,: 
That heauie Saturne laugh t and leapt with him. 

Yet nor the laies of birds, nor the sweet smell 
Of different flowers in odor and in hew, 
Could make me any summers story tell : 
Or from their proud lap pluck them where they grew: 

Nor did I wonder at the Lillies white, 
Nor praise the deepe vermillion in the Rose, 
They weare but sweet, but figures of delight: 
Drawne after you, you patterne of all those. 

Yet seem'd it Winter still, and you away, 
As with your shaddow I with these did play.

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