Ted¹ Hughes

I imagine this midnight moment's forest：

Something else is alive

Besides the clock's loneliness

And this blank page where my fingers move.

Through the window I see no star：

Something more near

Though deeper within darkness

Is entering the loneliness：

Cold， delicately as the dark snow，

A fox's nose touches twig²， leaf；

Two eyes serve a movement， that now

And again now， and now， and now

Sets neat prints into the snow

Between trees， and warily³ a lame⁴

Shadow lags by stump⁵ and in hollow

Of a body that is bold to come

Across clearings， an eye，

A widening deepening greenness，

Brilliantly， concentratedly，

Coming about its own business

Till， with sudden sharp hot stink⁶ of fox

It enters the dark hole of the head.

The window is starless still； the clock ticks，

The page is printed.