Move him into the sun
Gently its touch awoke
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