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?
|About the poet|
|By the same poet|
|Apologia pro Poemate Meo|
|The Parable of the Old Man and the Young|
|Arms and the Boy|
|Anthem for Doomed Youth|
|Dulce et Decorum est|
|S. I. W.|
|Smile, Smile, Smile|
|Wild with all Regrets|
|Wilfred Owen at amazon.co.uk|