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Across the narrow beach we flit, One little sand-piper and I; And fast I gather, bit by bit. The scattered drift-wood, bleached and dry, The wild waves reach their hands for it. The wild wind raves, the tide runs high, As up and down the beach we flit, One little sand-piper and I. - Celia Leighton Thaxter, The Sand-Piper
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