About Me

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As the resident poet at EcoHealth, my verse finds inspiration these days in the specter of future pandemics. For my dissertation at Amerika-Institut (LMU), I'm anatomizing the prosody of E. A. Robinson's sonnets. I also tutor at Schreibzentrum (LMU), teach at MVHS, and lead the Amerikahaus Literary Circle.

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Sonnet

by Thomas Hood

It is not death, that sometime in a sigh 
This eloquent breath shall take its speechless flight; 
That sometime these bright stars, that now reply 
In sunlight to the sun, shall set in night; 
That this warm conscious flesh shall perish quite, 
And all life's ruddy springs forget to flow; 
That thoughts shall cease, and the immortal sprite 
Be lapped in alien clay and laid below; 
It is not death to know this,--but to know 
That pious thoughts, which visit at new graves 
In tender pilgrimage, will cease to go 
So duly and so oft,--and when grass waves 
Over the past-away, there may be then 
No resurrection in the minds of men. 


Note:  A recitation can be heard here.

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