Downhill I came, hungry, and yet not starved;
Cold, yet had heat within me that was proof
against the North wind; tired, yet so that rest
Had seemed the sweetest thing under a roof.

Then at the inn I had food, fire, and rest,
Knowing how hungry, cold, and tired was I.
All of the night was quite barred out except
An owl's cry, a most melancholy cry

Shaken out long and clear upon the hill,
No merry note, nor cause of merriment,
but one telling me plain what I escaped
and others could not, that night, as in I went.

And salted was my food, and my repose,
salted and sobered, too, by the bird's voice
Speaking for all who lay under the stars,
soldiers and poor, unable to rejoice.

− Edward Thomas