Futility by Wilfred Owen

[MikeLigalig.com]

Futility by Wilfred Owen

     Move him into the sunâ€"
     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 seedsâ€"
     Woke, once, the clays of a cold star.
     Are limbs so dear-achieved, are sides
     Full-nerved,â€"still warm,â€"too hard to stir?
     Was it for this the clay grew tall?
    â€"O what made fatuous sunbeams toil
     To break earth's sleep at all?




☆ START YOUR OWN blog site, business or personal website, or e-commerce store at www.fastcomet.com ☆