Futility
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?
Poem by
Wilfred Owen
Biography |
Poems
| Best Poems | Short Poems
| Quotes
|
Email Poem |
More Poems by Wilfred Owen
Comments, Analysis, and Meaning on Futility
Provide your analysis, explanation, meaning, interpretation, and comments on the poem Futility here.
Commenting turned off, sorry.