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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.


On His Blindness

by John Milton

When I consider how my light is spent  
  E're half my days, in this dark world and wide,  
  And that one Talent which is death to hide,  
  Lodg'd with me useless, though my Soul more bent  
To serve therewith my Maker, and present        
  My true account, least he returning chide,  
  Doth God exact day-labour, light deny'd,  
  I fondly ask; But patience to prevent  
That murmur, soon replies, God doth not need  
  Either man's work or his own gifts, who best  
  Bear his milde yoak, they serve him best, his State  
Is Kingly. Thousands at his bidding speed  
  And post o're Land and Ocean without rest:  
  They also serve who only stand and waite.

Note:  A recitation can be heard here.

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