Futility

Item

Description

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?
Was it for this the clay grew tall?
-- O what made fatuous sunbeams toil
To break earth's sleep at all?

Identifier

3318.txt

Creator

Owen, Wilfred (1893-1918)

Date

1983

Date Created

1983-01-01

Temporal Coverage

1983-12-31

Type

Poem

Publisher

The First World War Poetry Digital Archive

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