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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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How Soon Hath Time the Subtle Thief of Youth

by John Milton


How soon hath Time, the subtle thief of youth,
       Stol'n on his wing my three-and-twentieth year!
       My hasting days fly on with full career,
       But my late spring no bud or blossom shew'th.
Perhaps my semblance might deceive the truth
       That I to manhood am arriv'd so near;
       And inward ripeness doth much less appear,
       That some more timely-happy spirits endu'th.
Yet be it less or more, or soon or slow,
       It shall be still in strictest measure ev'n
       To that same lot, however mean or high,
Toward which Time leads me, and the will of Heav'n:
       All is, if I have grace to use it so
       As ever in my great Task-Master's eye.


Note:  A recitation can be heard here.

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