1 Move him into the sun-- <br />2 Gently its touch awoke him once, <br />3 At home, whispering of fields unsown. <br />4 Always it awoke him, even in France, <br />5 Until this morning and this snow. <br />6 If anything might rouse him now <br />7 The kind old sun will know. <br /> <br />8 Think how it wakes the seeds-- <br />9 Woke, once, the clays of a cold star. <br />10 Are limbs so dear-achieved, are sides <br />11 Full-nerved,--still warm,--too hard to stir? <br />12 Was it for this the clay grew tall? <br />13 --O what made fatuous sunbeams toil <br />14 To break earth's sleep at all?<br /><br />Wilfred Owen<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/futility/
