The Owl
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 (1878-1917) is among my favourite poets, one of those whose revelations never become predictable (Emily Dickinson is another). Thomas, perhaps more stealthily, regularly delivers a surprise, a lyric poem which, if it were a gift, would be wrapped in honest, glitter-free brown paper. You open the parcel to find a poem which is so unexpectedly truthful and nuanced it suddenly seems hair-raising. The Thrush was the last Thomas poem featured here: this time, it’s The Owl.
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