Normale Version: St. Thomas' Day
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So dimly wanes the old year to its end!
And now we are attain'd the very day
When the blest sun hath sent his dimmest ray
From the far south; and now will northward bend.

The days will lengthen, will the days amend?
Alas! the days or lengthen or decay
By law they ne'er would wish to disobey,
And only sink the blither to ascend.

Few lives are strech'd to the long weary night
Of dull December, and its mizzling veil
Of day, brief tarrying in the murky dale;

For some in April melt to happier light;
Some burn away in passionate July;
And happier some in ripe Octobre die.