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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?
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