Move him into the Sun: IV. Futility

"To all men else uncouth

Save me, who know your smile comes very old

Learnt of the happy dead that laughed with gods

For earlier suns than ours have lent you gold

Sly fauns and trees have given you jigs and nods

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?"