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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 the snow.

If anything might rouse him now

The kind old sun will know.

Move him into the sun

Gently its touch awoke him once,

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?

Move him into the sun

Gently its touch awoke him once.

Wilfred Owen (1893 - 1918)