FutilityMove him the sun -Gently its touch awoke him once,At home, whispering of fields unsown.Always it woke him, even in France,Until this morning and this snow.If anything might rouse him nowThe 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 toilTo break earth's sleep at all?
Wilfred Owen
FutilityMove him the sun -Gently its touch awoke him once,At home, whispering of fields unsown.Always it woke him, even in France,Until this morning and this snow.If anything might rouse him nowThe 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 toilTo break earth's sleep at all?