The Combe
THE Combe was ever dark, ancient and dark.Its mouth is stopped with bramble, thorn, and briar;And no one scrambles over the sliding chalkBy beech and yew and perishing juniperDown the half precipices of its sides, with rootsAnd rabbit holes for steps. The sun of Winter,The moon of Summer, and all the singing birdsExcept the missel-thrush that loves juniper,Are quite shut out. But far more ancient and darkThe Combe looks since they killed the badger there,Dug him out and gave him to the hounds,That most ancient Briton of English beasts.
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