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Thanks to a residency at EcoHealth, my verse these days finds inspiration in the specter of future pandemics; for my dissertation at LMU München, where I tutor composition and edit a poetry weekly, I'm anatomizing the prosody of E. A. Robinson's sonnets—I also teach at MVHS and lead the Amerikahaus 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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