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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.




by Michael Drayton

How many paltry foolish painted Things,
That now in coaches trouble every street,
Shall be forgotten (whom no Poet sings)
Ere they be well wrapped in their winding sheet!
  Where I, to thee Eternity shall give!       
When nothing else remaineth of these days.
And Queens hereafter shall be glad to live
Upon the alms of thy superfluous praise.
  Virgins and matrons, reading these my rhymes,
Shall be so much delighted with thy Story,        
That they shall grieve they lived not in these Times,
To have seen Thee, their sex’s only glory!
  So shalt thou fly above the vulgar throng,
  Still to survive in my immortal Song.

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