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Poem	No matter how he toil and strive The fate of every man alive With luck will be to lie alone, His empty name cut in a stone. Grim time the fairest fame will flout, But though his name be blotted out, And he forgotten with his peers, His stone may wear a year of years. No matter how we sow and reap The end of all is endless sleep; From strife a merciful release, From life the crowning prize of Peace.
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