The fox

At 'The Fox Inn'

The tattered ears,

The fox's grin

Mock the dead years.

High on the wall

Above the cask

Laughs at you all

The fox's mask.

The horn is still,

The huntsman gone;

After the kill

The fox lives on.

Death's date is there

In faded gold;

His eyes outstare

The dead of old.

Beneath this roof

His eyes mistrust

The crumbled hoof,

The hounds of dust.

You will not call,

I shall not stir

When the fangs fall

From that brown fur.