by John Vance Cheney
Must be God's warders hearken every sigh,
Draw close and lovingly around the old;
The glories on the going summer lie,
On the spent sun attend the hosts in gold.
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The Old
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Must be God's warders hearken every sigh,
Draw close and lovingly around the old;
The glories on the going summer lie,
On the spent sun attend the hosts in gold.