Explore "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?