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Best Famous On Track Poems

Here is a collection of the all-time best famous On Track poems. This is a select list of the best famous On Track poetry. Reading, writing, and enjoying famous On Track poetry (as well as classical and contemporary poems) is a great past time. These top poems are the best examples of on track poems.

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Written by Wilfred Owen | Create an image from this poem


 Under his helmet, up against his pack,
After the many days of work and waking,
Sleep took him by the brow and laid him back.
And in the happy no-time of his sleeping, Death took him by the heart.
There was a quaking Of the aborted life within him leaping .
Then chest and sleepy arms once more fell slack.
And soon the slow, stray blood came creeping From the intrusive lead, like ants on track.
* * * Whether his deeper sleep lie shaded by the shaking Of great wings, and the thoughts that hung the stars, High pillowed on calm pillows of God's making Above these clouds, these rains, these sleets of lead, And these winds' scimitars; --Or whether yet his thin and sodden head Confuses more and more with the low mould, His hair being one with the grey grass And finished fields of autumns that are old .
Who knows? Who hopes? Who troubles? Let it pass! He sleeps.
He sleeps less tremulous, less cold Than we who must awake, and waking, say Alas!

Written by Dylan Thomas | Create an image from this poem

When Like A Running Grave

 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
Of the bone inch

Deliver me, my masters, head and heart,
Heart of Cadaver's candle waxes thin,
When blood, spade-handed, and the logic time
Drive children up like bruises to the thumb,
From maid and head,

For, sunday faced, with dusters in my glove,
Chaste and the chaser, man with the cockshut eye,
I, that time's jacket or the coat of ice
May fail to fasten with a virgin o
In the straight grave,

Stride through Cadaver's country in my force,
My pickbrain masters morsing on the stone
Despair of blood faith in the maiden's slime,
Halt among eunuchs, and the nitric stain
On fork and face.
Time is a foolish fancy, time and fool.
No, no, you lover skull, descending hammer Descends, my masters, on the entered honour.
You hero skull, Cadaver in the hangar Tells the stick, 'fail.
' Joy is no knocking nation, sir and madam, The cancer's fashion, or the summer feather Lit on the cuddled tree, the cross of fever, Not city tar and subway bored to foster Man through macadam.
I dump the waxlights in your tower dome.
Joy is the knock of dust, Cadaver's shoot Of bud of Adam through his boxy shift, Love's twilit nation and the skull of state, Sir, is your doom.
Everything ends, the tower ending and, (Have with the house of wind), the leaning scene, Ball of the foot depending from the sun, (Give, summer, over), the cemented skin, The actions' end.
All, men my madmen, the unwholesome wind With whistler's cough contages, time on track Shapes in a cinder death; love for his trick, Happy Cadaver's hunger as you take The kissproof world.