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Edwin Muir - The Combat
Work rating: Medium

It was not meant for human eyes,
	That combat on the shabby patch
	Of clods and trampled turf that lies
	Somewhere beneath the sodden skies
	For eye of toad or adder to catch.

	And having seen it I accuse
	The crested animal in his pride,
	Arrayed in all the royal hues
	Which hide the claws he well can use
	To tear the heart out of the side.

	Body of leopard, eagle`s head
	And whetted beak, and lion`s mane,
	And frost-grey hedge of feathers spread
	Behind — he seemed of all things bred.
	I shall not see his like again.

	As for his enemy there came in
	A soft round beast as brown as clay;
	All rent and patched his wretched skin;
	A battered bag he might have been,
	Some old used thing to throw away.

	Yet he awaited face to face
	The furious beast and the swift attack.
	Soon over and done.  That was no place
	Or time for chivalry or for grace.
	The fury had him on his back.

	And two small paws like hands flew out
	To right and left as the trees stood by.
	One would have said beyond a doubt
	That was the very end of the bout,
	But that the creature would not die.

	For ere the death-stroke he was gone,
	Writhed, whirled, into his den,
	Safe somehow there.  The fight was done,
	And he had lost who had all but won.
	But oh his deadly fury then.

	A while the place lay blank, forlorn,
	Drowsing as in relief from pain.
	The cricket chirped, the grating thorn
	Stirred, and a little sound was born.
	The champions took their posts again.

	And all began.  The stealthy paw
	Slashed out and in.  Could nothing save
	These rags and tatters from the claw?
	Nothing.  And yet I never saw
	A beast so helpless and so brave.

	And now, while the trees stand watching, still
	The unequal battle rages there.
	The killing beast that cannot kill
	Swells and swells in his fury till
	You`d almost think it was despair.
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