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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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LXXIII

by William Shakespeare

That time of yeeare thou maiſt in me behold, 
When yellow leaues,or none,or fewe doe hange 
Vpon thoſe boughes which ſhake againſt the could, 
Bare rn'wd quiers,where late the ſweet birds ſang. 
In me thou ſeeſt the twi-light of ſuch day, 
As after Sun-ſet fadeth in the Weſt, 
Which by and by blacke night doth take away, 
Deaths ſecond ſelfe that ſeals vp all in reſt. 
In me thou ſeeſt the glowing of ſuch fire, 
That on the aſhes of his youth doth lye, 
As the death bed,whereon it muſt expire, 
Conſum'd with that which it was nurriſht by. 
   This thou perceu'ſt,which makes thy loue more ſtrong, 
   To loue that well,which thou muſt leaue ere long.

Note:  A recitation can be heard here.

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