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As the resident artist at EcoHealth, I pen verse 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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XCIII


by William Shakespeare

So ſhall I liue,ſuppoſing thou art true,
Like a deceiued husband,ſo loues face,
May ſtill ſeem loue to me,though alter'd new:
Thy lookes with me,thy heart in other place.
For their can liue no hatred in thine eye,
Therefore in that I cannot know thy change,
In manies lookes,the falce hearts hiſtory
Is writ in moods and frounes and wrinckles ſtrange.
But heauen in thy creation did decree,
That in thy face ſweet loue ſhould euer dwell,
What ere thy thoughts,or thy hearts workings be,
Thy lookes ſhould nothing thence,but ſweetneſſe tell.
   How like Eaues apple doth thy beauty grow,
   If thy fweet vertue anſwere not thy ſhow.


Note:  A recitation can be heard here.

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