The Fox

	Yesterday, with sure intent,

	I was beneath the trees (woe to the man who cannot see her),

	loitering under Ovid's branches,

4	awaiting a girl beneath those trees.

	As I, protecting the leaf–house,

	was happiest under a leafy grove —

	on my way he made me weep —

8	when I looked over I saw

	an ape–like form where I'd not wish it to be,

	a red fox (he despises the song of hounds)

	sitting like a tame boar

12	on his haunches near his lair.

	I aimed between my hands

	a yew–bow (there he was, brazen),

	intending, like a hotshot bowman,

16	on the brow of the hill (agitated fury) —

	a weapon to speed across the plain —

	to strike him with a long, thick arrow.

	In a skewed attempt, I drew

20	beyond my cheek and shot well past the target.

	Woe is me, my bow broke

	into three pieces, such a wretched calamity.

	I became enraged — this did not frighten me

24	(fretful bear) — by that fox.

	He's a man who'd love a hen,

	and vain fowl and bird–flesh,

	a man who's never behind the blast of horns,

28	whose voice and carolling are harsh.

	He's ruddy against gravelly land,

	like an ape amongst the green trees,

	a banner [to frighten] crows near a hill's edge,

32	acre–leaper, red as an ember,

	a prominent mirror [to frighten] crows and fair magpies,

	like the dragon of prognostication,

	ferocity full of commotion, gnawer of a fat hen,

36	his pelt proverbial, his flesh red–hot,

	auger of the fair, hollow–bellied earth,

	a lantern on a lair's windowsill,

	a copper bow, light of foot,

40	like pincers with his bloody snout.

	It's not easy for me to follow him

	since his dwelling is as far down as Annwfn.

	Beware the field where he happens to pounce,

44	the image of a dog, craving for a goose.

	Red pacer, judged most persistent,

	he would outstrip any pack of hounds.

	His onrush is swift, gorse–leaper,

48	a leopard with a dart in his rump.