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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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XVIII

by John Milton


On the Late Massacre in Piedmont
Avenge, O Lord, thy slaughter'd saints, whose bones 
       Lie scatter'd on the Alpine mountains cold, 
       Ev'n them who kept thy truth so pure of old, 
       When all our fathers worshipp'd stocks and stones; 
Forget not: in thy book record their groans 
       Who were thy sheep and in their ancient fold 
       Slain by the bloody Piemontese that roll'd 
       Mother with infant down the rocks. Their moans 
The vales redoubl'd to the hills, and they 
       To Heav'n. Their martyr'd blood and ashes sow 
       O'er all th' Italian fields where still doth sway 
The triple tyrant; that from these may grow 
       A hundred-fold, who having learnt thy way 
Early may fly the Babylonian woe.

Note:  A recitation can be found here.

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