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Poem by Wilfred Owen


Move him into the sun--
Gently its touch awoke him once,
At home, whispering of fields unsown.
Always it awoke 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? 

Wilfred Owen

Wilfred Owen's other poems:
  1. Inspection
  2. With An Identity Disc
  3. The Calls
  4. Schoolmistress
  5. Cramped in That Funnelled Hole

Poems of the other poets with the same name:

  • Robert Service Futility ("Dusting my books I spent a busy day")
  • Claude McKay Futility ("Oh, I have tried to laugh the pain away")

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