Futility
Wilfred Owen
1893 to 1918
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Move him into the sun—
Gently its touch awoke ______ once,
At home, whispering of fields half-sown.
Always it ______ him, even in France,
Until this morning and this snow.
If anything might rouse him now
The kind old ______ will know.
Think how it wakes the seeds—
Woke ______ the clays of a cold star.
Are limbs, so dear-achieved, are sides
Full-nerved, still warm, too hard to stir?
______ it for this the clay grew tall?
—O what ______ fatuous sunbeams toil
To break earth's sleep at all?