Futility

Move him into the sun—Gently its touch awoke him once,

At home, whispering of fields unsown.

Always it awoke him, even in France,

Until this morning and this snow.

If anything might rouse him

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

Full-nerved,—still warm,—too hard to stir?

Was it for this the clay grew tall?—O what made fatuous sunbeams

To break earth's sleep at all?“The Nation” on 15th June 1918.