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Futility
by
Wilfred Owen
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Move him into the sun - Gently its touch awoke him once At home, whispering of fields unsown Always it woke him, even in France Until this morning, and this snow If anything might rouse him now The kind old sun will know Think how it wakes the seed - Woke, once, the clays of a cold star Are limbs, so dear-achieved, are sides Full-nerved - still warm - too hard to stir? Was it for this the clay grew tall? - O what made fatuous sunbeams toil To break earth's sleep at all?
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