The Poet Raises a Toast

it is addressed thusly:
An ode.
it reads:
We look to a lighter mood
As the warm wind through the wood
In the curious gray night
Of out-prolonged twilight
Slight, is the spell in its subtlety
Bereft and inure though we be
We are not all frost-bit
Not all urine and spit
To wit, we need no book
Nor a song for the hook
Though it be but in our head
Though we be still dead
I said, I am yet grown old
That the tale may be told
That on an autumnday night
In a strange twilight
In spite of blood-dark wine
And every line, line, line
On my face, every one
That we first grew young.

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