Futility

FUTILITY by WILFRED OWEN

Move him into the sun--- Gently its touch awoke him once, At home, whispering of fields half-sown. 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 seeds--- Woke once the clays of a cold star. Are limbs, so dear achieved, are sides Full-nerved, still warm, too hard to stir? ---O what made fatuous sunbeams toil To break earth's sleep at all?