I think my prose reads as if English were my second language. By the time I get to the end of a paragraph, I'm dodging bullets and gasping for breath.
Lynn AbbeyAbout author
- Author's profession: Author
- Nationality: american
- Born: January 1, 1948
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When I am dead, my dearest, Sing no sad songs for me; Plant thou no roses at my head, Nor shady cypress tree: Be the green grass above me. With showers and dewdrops wet: And if thou wilt, remember, And if thou wilt, forget. I shall not see the shadows, I shall not feel the rain; I shall not hear the nightingale. Sing on as if in pain: And dreaming through the twilight. That doth not rise nor set, Haply I may remember, And haply I may forget.
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