To foxglove

The fox in dark of shady night
sets out to stride at ease,
with a pen in paws, in gloved with white,
through the lane of ginseng trees,
and at the side where roses grow
he sees a bush of clove,
with cat-red leaves and buds of snow
that ripen in the eaves.
He picks a twig to brush his main
and coat of Griffith brown,
the smell stay on him like a stain,
on his coat and kem and crown.