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This dead time of the year, When the Sun is unsure To go on warming fragile frame, To act as doctors cure. Should Golden Ball swing higher And turn the ice to melt, To set ablaze the deserted desert, And split wide the choking pelt? Northern man, far removed From Capricorn, may revel in the rays And relax with glowing skin, While Southener counts the long dark days. But King Sol, Well versed in route to take, Will for half his tour First one and then the other bake. We sweat away the long blue hours, Or turn the guttering flame brighter, And God-like object in the sky Will surely reward the fighter. Plough and sow, and tend the crop, And later reap the harvest, To spend, the dark time of Sols life In warm, recuperative, rest. |