Thursday, 18 August 2011

The Thursday Poem




Futility

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 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 famous sunbeams toil
To break earth's sleep at all?

Wilfred Owen
(18th March 1893 - 4th November 1918)

from the book: Poem for the Day One

1 comment:

Sharon said...

That was different. Definitely old language, words not thought of being put together anymore. It makes me kind of sad, people don't color their words anymore.

XXX