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Poem	Always searching, may you find; if you run-down, may you wind; every year may you grow reaping only what you sow sowing only in the seed what will ripen into need what will sweeten to the touch seeming little, being much. May your playmates be a song, may your friends just skip along laughing you into their game letting you remain the same in their hearts and on their lips even when their fingertips have to let you go your way— glad they saw Alix today.
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