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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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I


by Richard Lincke


When first the feather'd God did strike my  hart

  with fatall and ymedicable wound,
  leaving behind the head of his fell dart,
  my bloodless body fell vnto the ground ;
And, when with shame I reinforc'd my might
  boldly to gaze on her so heavenly face,
  huge flames of fire she darted from her light,
  which since have scorcht me in most pitious case :
To quench which heate, an Ocean of teares
  have gushed out from forth my red-swolne eyes
  but deep-fetch'd sighs the raging flame vpreares,
  and blowes the sparkes vp to the purple skies.
Whereat the Gods afraid that heaven should burne,
Intreated Love that I for e're might mourne.

Note:  A recitation can be heard here.

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