Fox Grave
"Ah, hell is wide and thy feet are small,
There is never an inn to shelter thee"—
So wept the poet, bowing his head
Over the grave where her bones should be,
And never saw that his fox-girl love
Was laughing at him through a flowering tree.
There is never an inn to shelter thee"—
So wept the poet, bowing his head
Over the grave where her bones should be,
And never saw that his fox-girl love
Was laughing at him through a flowering tree.
