futility

Inspired by Wilfred Owen 1893 - 1918

 

Move him into the sun

gently its touch awoke him once,

at home, dreaming 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.

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 wake up earth at all,

to wake up earth at all.

 

Move him into the sun,

gently its touch awoke him once,

at home, dreaming 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.

The kind old sun will know.