Move him into the sun–
\nGently its touch awoke him once,
\nAt home, whispering of fields unsown.
\nAlways it awoke him, even in France,
\nUntil this morning and this snow.
\nIf anything might rouse him now
\nThe kind old sun will know.<\/p>\n
Think how it wakes the seeds–
\nWoke, once, the clays of a cold star.
\nAre limbs so dear-achieved, are sides
\nFull-nerved,–still warm,–too hard to stir?
\nWas it for this the clay grew tall?
\n–O what made fatuous sunbeams toil
\nTo break earth’s sleep at all?<\/p>\n
— Wilfred Owen<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"