The Owl
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OWNHILL I came, hungry, and yet not starved;Cold, yet had heat within me that was proofAgainst the North wind; tired, yet so that restHad 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 exceptAn 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 escapedAnd 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 voiceSpeaking for all who lay under the stars,Soldiers and poor, unable to rejoice.
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