The Owl

Down hill 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.

The Dark Forest

Dark is the forest and deep, and overhead 
Hang stars like seeds of light 
In vain, though not since they were sown was bred 
Anything more bright. 

And evermore mighty multitudes ride 
About, nor enter in; 
Of the other multitudes that dwell inside 
Never yet was one seen. 

The forest foxglove is purple, the marguerite 
Outside is gold and white, 
Nor can those that pluck either blossom greet 
The others, day or night.