it is addressed thusly:
An ode.
it reads:
The twilight month is half, and half another thing
As to laugh and cry, or as to sob and sing
A solemn festivity of the sinking, dying year
The wilting of the flower is the ripe'ning of the ear
In the western sun it must end in paradox
The day before the holy day is not of stones and stocks
A mockery of evil and a mockery of death
A sort of jolly irony held at winter's bated breath
But also too the Chinook time of unexpected balm
As the other month of fury and of calm
The golden Crown of harvest burns as though it were aflame
And if cold comes quicker, splendor is her name
Of every heated color from purple to ocher-brown
To see such liberality only a miser could bear a frown
But then to recall the pageantry is a funeral dirge
The sadness and the joy perhaps finesse a merge
Cast her down before the hearth, before it bright and drear
Before the all consuming fire, before the closing of the year.

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