Wilfred Owen

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