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Poem	These wet rocks where the tide has been, Barnacled white and weeded brown And slimed beneath to a beautiful green, These wet rocks where the tide went down Will show again when the tide is high Faint and perilous, far from shore, No place to dream, but a place to die,— The bottom of the sea once more. There was a child that wandered through A giant's empty house all day,— House full of wonderful things and new, But no fit place for a child to play.
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