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? | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...DESCRIPTION OF SPRING by HENRY HOWARD THE MEANING OF PRAYER by JAMES MONTGOMERY THE BIVOUAC OF THE DEAD by THEODORE O'HARA THERMOPYLAE by SIMONIDES OF CEOS THE COMPLAINT OF POETIE, FOR THE DEATH OF LIBERALITE by RICHARD BARNFIELD THE ROWFANT CATALOGUE by WILFRID SCAWEN BLUNT |