it is addressed thusly:
An ode.
it reads:
The grayness of evening, the poet once
Beseeched in his ignorance
What manner of unspoken hints
Saw he in its dim countenance?
We can only guess that he like us
Grew weary of life's weary fuss
A call to something older, true
It must be thought that he might make
As perhaps a voice across a lake
Echoes like light between the blue
And catches every moving thing
In the sea and upon the wing
And draws its form in bright relief
Where the sky lights not the east or west
But both, as the defense a moment rest
Catching breath; foreseeing grief
And pray for courage, though we wince
And like the poet beseech our ignorance.

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