Bless the beasts and little children,
	For in their innocence
	Neither knows what "reality"
	For them holds in store.
	They need not cry,
	Save when some errant thorn
	Should prick their questing finger.
	But, soon their questing finger
	Grows to be a grasping hand--
	And when hurt then comes,
	They find they can no longer cry
	But must hurt in anguished silence.


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