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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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The Sonnet

by William Wordsworth

Nuns fret not at their convent's narrow room, 
  And hermits are contented with their cells, 
  And students with their pensive citadels; 
Maids at the wheel, the weaver at his loom, 
Sit blithe and happy; bees that soar for bloom,       
  High as the highest peak of Furness fells, 
  Will murmur by the hour in foxglove bells: 
In truth the prison unto which we doom 
Ourselves no prison is: and hence for me, 
  In sundry moods, 'twas pastime to be bound  
  Within the Sonnet's scanty plot of ground; 
Pleased if some souls (for such there needs must be) 
Who have felt the weight of too much liberty, 
  Should find brief solace there, as I have found.

Note:  A recitation can be heard here.

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