When, Like a Running Grave by Dylan Thomas

When, like a running grave, time tracks you down, / Your calm and cuddled is a scythe of hairs, / Love in her gear is slowly through the house, / Up naked stairs, a turtle in a hearse,

Hauled to the dome, / Comes, like a scissors stalking, tailor age, / Deliver me who, timid in my tribe, / Of love am barer than Cadaver's trap / Robbed of the foxy tongue, his footed tape