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As the resident artist at EcoHealth, my verse these days finds inspiration in the specter of future pandemics; for my dissertation at Amerika-Institut of LMU München, where I edit a weekly circular of U.S. poetry, I'm anatomizing the prosody of E. A. Robinson's sonnets—I also teach English and tutor composition.

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On a Bank as I Sat A-Fishing

   A Description of the Spring

by Sir Henry Wotton


This day Dame Nature seemed in love;
The lusty sap began to move;
Fresh juice did stir th’ embracing vines,
And birds had drawn their valentines;
The jealous trout that low did lie        
Rose at the well-dissembled fly;
There stood my friend, with patient skill
Attending of his trembling quill.
Already were the eaves possess’d
With the swift pilgrim’s daubèd nest;        
The groves already did rejoice
In Philomel’s triumphing voice;
The showers were short, the weather mild,
The morning fresh, the evening smiled;
Joan takes her neat-rubbed pail, and now        
She trips to milk the sand-red cow;
Where for some sturdy football swain
Joan strokes a syllabub or twain;
The fields and gardens were beset
With tulip, crocus, violet;        
And now, though late the modest rose
Did more than half a blush disclose,
Thus all looked gay and full of cheer
To welcome the new-liveried year.

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