I saw a man sitting in the inn,
Clad all in gold, with a golden sword,
His eyes dark gems that held within
Them fire stolen from a dragon's bright hoard.

He called for wine, and he called for song,
And he clapped, smiling, all the while they sang.
He had black hair that hung, uncut and long,
To his shoulders, and with many bells rang.

I saw a man speak to him, call him the Fox,
But the man only shook his head, and listened
To the singing, holding a silence like rocks.
Surely those were not tears that in his eyes glistened?

And then he rose and bowed to us all, and then
He began to sing in a voice like no other I've heard,
Though I've served long in the inn, heard many men,
And many a woman with a voice like a bird.

Out came his voice like the song of the river
That sings through the forest when free of snow-rime,
And then righted itself with a young colt's small shiver,
When it rises to its hooves for the very first time.

Wild he sang, of the forest and the noises there,
The small noises of the hunters, loud note of a bird,
And he danced, with the bells ringing in his hair,
And sounded like no man or woman I've ever heard.

Then he drew a knife, and cut off all his long hair,
Till his skull gleamed bald and shiny in the lamplight.
Then he bowed to us all, and I thought him fair,
Though he was thin, his skin pebbly and white.

He was gone in the morning, and still everyone talks
About how we saw him, and heard the bells clang
When he strew his hair on the floor, the Fox.
But no one ever dares speak a word of how he sang.