Ted 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 twig， leaf；

Two eyes serve a movement， that now

And again now， and now， and now

Sets neat prints into the snow

Between trees， and warily a lame

Shadow lags by stump 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 stink of fox

It enters the dark hole of the head.

The window is starless still； the clock ticks，

The page is printed.