THE OWL
Edward Thomas
Downhill I came, hungry, and yet not starved;
Cold, yet had heat within me that was proof
Against the 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 hunry, cold, and tired was I.
All of the night was quite barred out except
An owls 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.
Label it whatever you like this is one of the most stunning poems I've ever read. If only for this (and Brook's Heaven) I second John's admiration for much of what was written during the period. And I wonder, without his Georgian background, what kind of poet would Owen have been?
Never mind all the critical bloviating; give me the thing in itself.
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