| This is the turning of the year
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| The final scene before the curtain falls
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| The squirrel, warm within his bed
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| of leaves cannot hear the wind
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| that blows around the chimney pots
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| For like the pilgrim of the year gone by
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| Once he was a young man
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| who laughed in the spring
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| And lay beneath an upturned sky
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| on long hot summer days
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| But with autumn he grows mellow
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| He looks over his shoulder
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| Down the long year path of no return
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| Already he is but a memory
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| Fading like a shadow on the wall
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| But time with restless footsteps
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| hurries by and now beside the road
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| There stands the pilgrim
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| of the year to be
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| Falling leaves turn to gold
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| Silver flowers on my window
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| Spirit of the fading year
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| He knows not where
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| He cannot say, oh no
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| Naked trees in the sky
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| Stars are shining clear and cold
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| The minstrel of the ages
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| sings of oh so long ago
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| An age old tune without a name
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| No one knows
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| In the white falling snow
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| The pilgrim travels on
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| His face towards the sun
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| Beyond the open road he travels on
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| Past the lamp shining windows
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| And faces by the fire
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| Before the midnight hour
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| For Christmas time
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| has come around again
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| Go to sleep, little child
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| You shouldn’t be awake
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| Go to sleep little child
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| Time to let the night go by
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| Waiting for the sound of a magic sleigh
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| The chimneys not too tall they say
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| Or the roof too high for a reindeer to fly
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| No not too high for a reindeer to fly
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| The clock strikes twelve
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| on a street below
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| They hurry to a church to pray
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| «Forgive our sins and negligence
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| Accept our humble penitence
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| It’s been a year ago today
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| Since we were here»
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| Choir gently sings an anthem
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| Not too loud or out of key
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| Congregation turn eye corners
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| When the plate goes round to see
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| Who gives the most on Christmas day
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| The most on Christmas day
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| Twilight days are slipping far away
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| Just sand into an hour glass
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| For winter time is slowly passed
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| And cannot last forever
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| North wind turn your back
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| upon the doors that you have blown
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| West wind melt the organ pipes of ice
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| That glitter on the eaves
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| of the houses in the town
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| And the sun wakes up the flowers
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| That slumber through the winter
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| And warms the sleepy faces
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| Waiting for the spring
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| The skies of steel
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| and fields white with frost
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| are memories of yesterday
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| And while scarecrow children
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| search the hedgerows and splash
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| through muddy pools for secrets
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| The spirit of the spring
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| with the sunbeams on her hair
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| shakes the sleeping earth
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| And with the pilgrim by her side
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| She murmurs in the trees
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| And in the ears of all who listen
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| «Now time to wake for winter has gone»
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| With flowers in her hair
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| She smiles again and like a child
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| cares nothing for tomorrow
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| She spreads her wings
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| Catch her if you see her
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| in your mind’s eye
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| For she smiles in a Mona Lisa way
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| Sun is rising
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| from a cloud above your head
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| When you instead are sleeping
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| All is knowing, all is growing
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| And no one knows
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| which way their mind is blowing
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| And now she finds
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| her work is almost done
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| And like a child
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| cares nothing for tomorrow
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| And like a child
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| cares nothing for tomorrow
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| And like a child thinks only for today
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| The pilgrim wanders with the spirit
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| of the spring, enchanted
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| As if tomorrow will never come
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| But time is running out
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| And as she bids him farewell
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| Only the echo of her voice remains
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| For now she flies
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| On the bare back of the south wind
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| Across the naked mountains
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| Above the winding rivers
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| Breathing gently on the meadows
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| Scattering her flowers
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| into the grass and the hedgerows
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| Fading through the back door
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| Long summer day
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| Golden fingers pointing at my doorway
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| Meadow sleeping
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| Watching for the sky to turn you on
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| The air filled with heytime
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| Blowing past a flower-print lady
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| On a seat in the park
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| Wears a paper on her head
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| She never read at all
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| She’s just keeping her mind in the dark
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| Keeping her mind in the dark
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| You know she’s cool
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| She’s just like an ice-cream man
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| And don’t you see what I mean
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| She’s doing the best that she can
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| Doing the best that she can
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| Hey Mr. Sunshine
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| Like a Harlequin you’re dancing
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| on my picture book today
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| Ooh It’s a good time
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| And I’m floating far away
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| Chew on a candy-floss
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| in the pouring rain
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| Kids are crying again |
| Kids are crying again
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| Holiday time
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| Down on a beach with the crowd
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| Trying to look for the sun
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| Taking whatever you can
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| And your deckchair is an island
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| In a kaleidoscope world
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| Jamming cars, crowded bars
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| Standing trains or smell the drains
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| The quiver in the heat of the city street
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| God, I must get away
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| Hey Mr. Sunshine
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| And I’m floating far away
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| Down the wide open road
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| The pilgrim travels on
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| His face towards the sun
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| Beyond the open road he travels on
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| And the waves steal the footprints
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| Of the summer from the sand
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| Beneath the silver moon
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| The North wind blows
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| the fading leaves again
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| Around and around
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| All has nearly turned full circle
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| The warm lazy days of sunshine
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| And brown rivers
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| winding through the meadows
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| are a tale of yesterday
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| The pilgrim sighs
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| And draws his mantle close
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| about him in the smoky evening
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| He watches the leaves wither and fall
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| Frost has rimmed the pools with ice
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| And hung diamonds
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| in the spider’s web
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| For this is the turning of the year
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| The final scene before the curtain falls
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| And now beside the road there stands
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| the pilgrim of the year to be
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| Falling leaves turn to gold
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| Silver flowers on my window
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| Spirit of the fading year
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| He knows not where
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| He cannot say |