![](https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhR8Urx4Ikfg9dXK3UxAymLFWBUrAuUDaUEs-5C_RfevINZnLr2whr86vZXdb1CJyLRm4CGFYZrAhyphenhyphenZygyDZ-9m5hAm8WdUctYxB7JRmRDCU8cKBZqjg5x9vPW-oA9SL0ybdSyWFW7_5wI/s400/15.jpg)
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.
![](https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhq86UpG0w6w09sHWG_ap1Sf6HzzEy4YggExjHO03E4PjTEvViD1ttcQ38D7miXG5eQwi-HxeCY2a0WDibXpO8fuyA3CqcyVKz_cn9tJ_lRPlIBX-gbggnw3x-ql55J00G9INopArINrY/s200/Thomas.jpg)
Art credit: Untitled photograph, likely by Chris Watkins.
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