The Combe by Edward Thomas
The Combe by Edward Thomas
The Combe was ever dark, ancient and dark.
Its mouth is
stopped with brambles, thorn, and briar;
And no one scrambles
over the sliding chalk
By beech and yew and perishing
juniper
Down the half precipices of its sides, with roots
And
rabbit holes for steps. The sun of Winter,
The moon of Summer,
and all the singing birds
Except the missel-thrush that loves
juniper,
Are quite shut out. But far more ancient and dark
The
Combe looks since they killed the badger there,
Dug him out and
gave him to the hounds,
That most ancient Briton of English
beasts.
Note:
To the best of our knowledge, Edward Thomas's poetry is
ex-copyright in the United Kingdom.
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