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?
to whisper: to speak softly
unsown: not planted with seeds
to rouse: to wake
limb: an arm or leg
fatuous: silly and without purpose
By First World War poet Wilfred Owen (1893-1918)—killed in action on 4 November 1918 one week before war's end