OUTPACE Uncategorized Futility by Wilfred Owen

Futility by Wilfred Owen

Move him into the sun–
 Gently its touch awoke him once,
 At home, whispering of fields unsown.
 Always it awoke 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
 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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