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And sorrows and losses and cares fade away
When that life-giving signal proclaims the new day.
Though the bivouac of age may put ice in our veins,
And no fibre of steel in our sinew remains;
Though the comrades of yesterday's march are not here,
And the sunlight seems pale and the branches are sere,--
Though the sound of our cheering dies down to a moan,
We shall find our lost youth when the bugle is blown.
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