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Thanks to a residency at EcoHealth, my verse these days finds inspiration in the specter of future pandemics; for my dissertation at LMU München, where I tutor composition and edit a poetry weekly, I'm anatomizing the prosody of E. A. Robinson's sonnets—I also teach at MVHS and lead the Amerikahaus Literary Circle.



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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