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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.


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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