As it dries you as it soaks water from your body and it self gets wet.
It grows in the dark and shine in the light;
The paler it is, the more it is liked;
Its maker never gets paid, but never goes on strike.
What is it?
In spring I look gay, Covered in a green array, The warmer it gets the more clothing I wear, As the cold grows, I throw away my clothes.
What am I?
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