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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.

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by William Shakespeare

Like as the waues make towards the pibled ſhore,
So do our minuites haſten to their end,
Each changing place with that which goes before,
In ſequent toile all forwards do contend.
Natiuity once in the maine of light,
Crawles to maturity,wherewith being crown'd,
Crooked eclipſes gainſt his glory fight,
And time that gaue,doth now his gift confound.
Time doth tranſfixe the floriſh ſet on youth,
And delues the paralels in beauties brow,
Feedes on the rarities of natures truth,
And nothing ſtands but for his ſiethe to mow.
   And yet to times in hope,my verſe ſhall ſtand
   Praiſing thy worth,diſpight his cruell hand.


Note:  A recitation can be heard here.

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