Normale Version: December 1838
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The poor old year upon its deathbed lies;
Old trees lift up their branches manifold,
Spiry and stern, inveterately old;
Their bare and patient poverty defies

The fickle humour of inconstant skies.
All chill and distant, the great monarch Sun
Beholds the last days of his minion.
What is't to him how soon the old year dies?

Yet some things are, but lowly things and small,
That wait upon the old year to the last;
Some wee birds pipe a feeble madrigal,

Thrilling kind memories of the summer past;
Some duteous flowers put on their best array
To do meet honour to their lord's decay.