Explore "Poems: Futility" by Wilfred Owen on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
Move him into 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 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?