Old Age
Cale Young Rice
I have heard the wild geese, I have seen the leaves fall, There was frost last night On the garden wall. It is gone to-day And I hear the wind call. The wind? . . . That is all. If the swallow will light When the evening is near; If the crane will not scream Like a soul in fear; I will think no more Of the dying year, And the wind, its seer.
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