Move him into the sun— Gently its touch awoke him once, At home, whispering of fields half-sown. 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?
For what?
ReplyDeleteFutility
ReplyDeleteBy Wilfred Owen
Move him into the sun—
Gently its touch awoke him once,
At home, whispering of fields half-sown.
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?
A tribute to our fallen scunnert. Sorry you didn't see it that way.
ReplyDeleteVronsky, that deserves a post of its own. Do you mind if I add it to one I have in mind?
ReplyDeleteYou misunderstand me Subrosa. The sight of all those hearses - all those kids dead - for what?
ReplyDeleteMay they rest in peace.
Go right ahead, sr. That line - 'Was it for this the clay grew tall?' is one of the most powerful indictments of war ever written.
ReplyDeleteThanks Vronsky, I shall do something tomorrow. Most kind of you.
ReplyDelete